A Horatian Ode to Junpei Iori.

The rookie fiddles with his chin As marching organ sounds begin, The pitcher eyeing up his prey His winning hunger pains the day.

He spits upon the ball of thread And raises it above his head The fastest bowl to start the show A made career with killing blow.

The bat it cracks against the sky It disappears! Home run, they cry! He hits it hard again all spring And into fall, a cool he brings.

A year has passed, the pennant won A champagne bath, a job well done But one man fails to lift the cup The MVP whose head looks up.

Towards the stars, a dwarf perhaps The coffin of his romance lapsed “Chidori”, with a daint he hums Unzips his bag with fingers numb

Then on the mound he lays her down That dress of white, that wedding gown “Chidori, look at what you’ve made, These cheers your sweetest serenade”.