Last weekend our Gotham picnic inspired a poem:

Seven years since I last took a swing,
The bat feels strange, a heavy thing.
Muscle memory, faint and slow,
I grip the handle and give it a go.

The ball comes in my heart skips a beat,
A rusty swing, unsure on my feet.
But as it cracks, I feel the thrill—
The love of the game is alive still.