A-Rod at Bat

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Yankee nine that day:


The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Jeter’s ankle broke, and Texiera still is lame,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A depressed Lou got up to go in deep despair. Mike and Eileen
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only A-Rod could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with A-Rod at the bat.

But Nix preceded A-Rod, as did also Granderson,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of A-Rod getting to the bat.
But Nix let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Grandy, the much loved, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Grandy safe at second and Nix a-hugging third.

Then from 35,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the city, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the subway and recoiled upon the flat,
For A-Rod, mighty A-Rod, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in A-Rod’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in A-Rod’s bearing and a smile on A-Rod’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly spit a seed,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas A-Rod at the bat.

Seventy thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the Detroit pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in A-Rod's eye, a sneer curled A-Rod's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And A-Rod stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said A-Rod. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the bleachers, filled with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted Jan from the couch;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not A-Rod raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great A-Rod's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But A-Rod still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the Weinpresses, squeezing Molly tight,
But one scornful look from A-Rod and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that A-Rod wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from A-Rod's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of A-Rod's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in New York - mighty A-Rod has struck out.

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer © Modified somewhat by M. McCullough 2012.