Rows of Seats waiting for Seymour Butts

This is my first attempt at baseball poetry, so if you don't like it, you can always watch
reality TV.

All I see is green as I walk down the steps of the ballyard, bordered by white lines
Players in grey, players in red, players both black and white and clean dance and stretch
The manager speaks in hushed tones to his assistants , last minute orders and pleas
The bases are clean, the plate is swept and the air smells of fresh hope
The umpire calls for the beginning of play and the catcher and pitcher converge
A hitter is ready, the game will commence as he swings his bat at invisible pitches
The fans take their seats, they chant for their heroes, and tension begins to mount

Strike One, and the batter pulls back, sniffs the air is disgust, and prepares for another
Their pitcher recoils and heaves in Strike Two and the fans stand and scream their displeasure
The last ball drifts in slowly but catches the corner, and the umpire pumps his fist to declare it
Fans bark like a dog pound in heat, and the batter pivots and his walk displays disagreement
The game continues with both sides feeling out the other side like prize fighters in the ring
And the pitchers duel like two swordsman from an Errol Flynn movie , seemingly to the death
I watch from my seat to this summertime war expecting the explosion of offense
But the battle wears on, and the day's getting hotter, as the crusaders continue to sputter

Have the bats in their hands lost their magical powers , are their eyes lost their vision to see
Why have the swatters lost their swat, where has the pop and the smack gone to
In ballparks in California and Illinois, and New York and Texas become dead zones
Have the stopped popping pills, and do they not have the swagger, why has the energy wavered
Is it the brilliant young guns, with their 23 year old arms that has neutralised the thunder
Across the majors the questions persist, it's a new game some say, and we'd better learn fast
In the ballpark one fireballer replaces the other, and for a brief moment the other side has new hope
But we continue to play on in this scoreless exchange , awaiting the others to blink
The sun has set now, and lights are turned on, but there is no power to witness
The highlights are dives, and slides, and brilliant catches, and the single up the middle

The game is changing, and we watch it evolve from bashers and bangers to smackers, tossers, swingers and new young men who are surely changing our game.