When Ibanez traipses through the grass,
One hardly feels the moments pass.
With his eyes peeled tight and expression grim
The sky seems like it might fall on him.
Are his arms too short? His legs too tall?
One hardly seems able to tell at all
When the ball’s hit hard above third base
One feels the thrill of a NASCAR race.
What perils could our hero befall?
Get decapitated by the wall?
Or perhaps, he might only injure his grace
As the ball caroms off both glove and face?
But perhaps on Ibanez we’re being too hard.
It’s not like it’s wiffleball out in the yard.
I know, as one who felt Algebra’s sting
A parabola can be a quite tricky thing.
And adding 3-D complicates it a ton!
One wonders how outfielding ever gets done.
To calculate vectors and find the right spot,
My tip for Ibanez: go somewhere you’re not.
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