His eyes are cool his pitch is cold
With eyes aglow we hold our breath
And comes a scorching summer heat
Hidden in kimono’s fold.

His bat’s a burning torch as well
The fans see number seventeen
The ball comes jumping ‘cross the plate
The ball itself is blasted clean.

With Zen control he owns the zone
The distance between mound and plate
Going either way he rips
Ohtani never hesitates.

This is what we come to see
To sit outside and feel the game
We weave into the air our chants
Baseball’s dreaming mysteries.