Schiff at the Bat
(Apologies to) Ernest Lawrence Thayer - 1863-1940
For keks only.
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Swampville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Corney died at first, and Nadler did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Schiff could but get a whack at that—
We'd put up even money now, with Schiff at the bat."
But Shearer preceded Schiff, as did also Robbie Mook,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Schiff getting to the bat.
But Shearer let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Mook, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Robbie safe at second and Shearer a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Schiff, mighty Schiff, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Schiff's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Schiff's bearing and a smile lit Schiff's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the media could doubt 'twas Schiff at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand TDSers applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Schiff's eye, a sneer curled Schiff's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Schiff stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Schiff. "Strike one!" the Trumpire said.
From the benches, democrat, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the Trumpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Schiff raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Schiff's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Schiff still ignored it and the Trumpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened media sheeps, and echo chambered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Schiff and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Schiff wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Schiff'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 Schiff's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured 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 Swampville—mighty Schiff has struck out.