_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”.