BARRY AT THE BAT

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the hometown crowd that day;
Sure they led the Giants, with but one inning more to play.
But when Molina died at first, and Roberts did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few left to beat traffic, but the dreaming rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Barry could get one more whack at that –
We paid our hard earned money to boo Barry at the bat.

But Vizquel preceded Barry, as did also Randy Winn,
And the former was a good guy and the latter had no sin;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of booing Barry at the bat.

But Vizquel let drive a single, to the sick delight of all,
And Winn, the surprise hero, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Randy safe at second and Vizquel a-hugging third.

Then from 45,000 throats there howled a lusty boo;
It drowned out “Whoomp! There it is” and “YMCA” too;
It drew attention from the Wave and nachos topped with fat,
For Barry, hated Barry, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Barry’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Barry’s bearing and a smile on Barry’s face.
And when, responding to the boos, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Barry at the bat.

All the fans were on him as he adjusted his elbow brace;
Jeering when he placed his helmet a top his Giant face.
Then while the Role-Model pitcher spat brown tobacco dip,
Defiance gleamed in Barry’s eye, a sneer curled Barry’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,
And Barry stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Barry. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the grown men holding homemade signs, there came a muffled roar,
Like when their kids have had two sundaes and scream for just one more.
“Swing the bat you cheater!” shouted someone from the tier;
And it’s likely he’d have said worse, but he missed last call for beer.

With a forced smile of denial, hated Barry’s visage shone;
He rode the rising tumult with a disdain all his own;
He stared out at the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Barry still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands as they booed and hissed;
But those pumped up arms on the JumboTron could not be dismissed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Barry wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Barry’s lip; his teeth are clenched in hate;
He swears he’ll shut these people up as he digs in at 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 Barry’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 this town – hated Barry hit one out.