Schwarber at the Bat
It’s been an up and down affair,,
The Cubs an early lead.
But the Tribe tied it up,
Extra innings was the need.
,
Bryant took the grounder,
Then slipped on the wet grass.
Would his throw get to Rizzo?
Or another sad year pass?
,
Let’s go back to the beginning,
A Hundred Eight years ago.
Tinker, Evers, and Chance,
Won it last, you know.
,
In fact, they won it back-to-back,
Cubs haven’t won it since.
All that talk of a curse,
Have kept fans in suspense.
,
There was no Wrigleyville back then,
Games at the West Side Grounds.
Overall and Mordecai,
Were flawless, so it sounds.
,
There was joy felt in Chicago,
Would it happen ever again?
Or would the Cubs strike out?
And never get that win?
,
Then along came Rizzo,
Bryant and Zobrist, too.
A closer named Chapman,
All wearing Cubbie Blue.
,
Jake, Kyle, John, and Jon,
Took their places on the mound.
And the magician, Javy Baez,
Made the defense sound.
,
Russell handled shortstop,
Grandpa Ross behind the plate.
But the Mighty Schwarber,
Would sadly have to wait.
,
Let’s not forget Coach Maddon,
Or Epstein’s brilliant ways.
And thank the Rickett’s family,
For the “Fly the W” craze.
,
A Hundred Three wins later,
Put the Cardinals in their place.
Joy again in Wrigleyville.
They Won the Pennant race.
,
Then they took the Giants,
With the Dodgers next.
Now can they win the Series?
No sane fan should expect.
.
To Cleveland for game one,
With some hope it appears.
They haven’t won it either,
In the last seventy years.
.
Cubby spirits get a needed boost,
Mighty Schwarber’s at the bat.
But his double is not enough,
The Tribe clouts more than that.
.
Schwarber strikes harder,
And Jake wins game two.
But next day Cubs bats were silent,
No runs, and hits were few.
.
At last to Wrigleyville they go,
But down two games to one.
The stands are quiet at the end,
After the Kipnis home run.
.
No joy in Wrigleyville that night,
Cub chances growing thin.
The Indians were in command,
As Cory Kluber wins again.
.
As Game Five approached,
Tension filled Chicago’s air.
But Bryant slugged one deep,
One game closer to being square.
.
They could lose no more,
And expect to ever win.
Return to hostile Cleveland,
Can the Cubs prevail again?
.
Game Six little doubt,
Chapman’s arm overused?
But with Russell’s Grand Slam,
Indian confidence was bruised.
.
It was down to one game,
In a duel to be best.
Hendricks for the Cubs,
Kluber not much rest.
.
Chicago jumped out early,
Up by four in the Fifth.
By taking Kyle out,
Did the Tribe get a gift?
.
David Ross had made an error,
And Cleveland made him pay.
Then he homered next time up,
This hIs final game to play.
.
In the bottom of the Eighth,
Chapman showed his wear.
And had every Cubs fan,
On the edge of their chair.
.
Those Indians wouldn’t quit,
Rajai Davis tied the score.
But Chapman retired the side,
And wasn’t shown the door.
.
Two teams of such ill fate,
Only one would end their drought.
Two fly balls would end the Ninth,
Kipnis, like Casey, struck out!
.
And where was Wild Thing?
Cleveland fans might wonder.
Would this have a happy ending,
Or would it end in blunder?
.
The rain comes pouring down,
With no decision after Nine.
Heyward gave his pep talk,
Was this delay by design?
.
Once their wits were gathered,
The Cubs came out possessed.
They took the lead again,
And played their very best.
.
Mighty Schwarber a lead off single,
Junior’s pinch-run speedy wheels.
Zobrist earned an M.V.P.,
Then Migel Montero deals.
.
And would that be enough?
I guess we’ll finally know.
Montgomery got the grounder,
Bryant made the slippery throw.
.
Suspense is where we left you,
Would Bryant’s throw fly true?
Or would the curse continue,
And leave Cubs’ fans more Blue?
.
I think you know the answer?
There’s no one left to blame.
The Cubs are now World Champions,
Wrigleyville will never be the same.
.
copyright May 2017 johnstonwrites.com
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Here was the original “Casey at the Bat” poem, written in 1888:
Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows 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 Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”
.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
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 Casey getting to the bat.
.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn 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 Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.
.
Ten 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 writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
.
From the benches, black 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 someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’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 Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
.
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
.
The sneer is gone from Casey’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 Casey’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 Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
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