Barry at the Bay
My 'Sport in Film & Fiction' class was given an assignment to write a poem in the style of 'Casey at the Bat.' Here's what I came up with (it's six stanzas longer than the original).
Barry at the Bay
by Turner Walston
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Giants’ nine that day,
but no one knew the score (or cared) on the field of play.
Some fans, they booed. Some fans, they cheered. But they all stood in place
for a crusty old leftfielder well off the playoff pace.
A few signs went up in the crowd: “Steroids,” “Cheat,” they read.
The batter didn’t see them – he was focusing instead.
He knew they loved and hated him, he cared not anymore.
The home run total by his name read ‘Seven-fifty-four.”
The Commissioner, he was not there, and nor was Hammerin’ Hank
(the man whose claim to destiny would soon fall in the tank).
But Aaron had no asterisk next to his regal name,
for he’d done it the right way – he’d played an honest game.
No matter to our batter though, he was quite sure of that.
The record would be broken here tonight, in this at bat.
The pitcher was a late call-up. He shook there in his cleats.
He knew the batter’s résumé, his records and his feats.
The catcher gave his mate a sign. The rook nodded his head,
stepped slowly off the rubber, nervous, filled with dread.
The pitch cut through the summer air. It seemed to hang all day.
But “ball” bellowed the umpire – it was low and away.
The hitter stepped out of the box. He looked far down the line,
and thoughts about his legacy he let enter his mind.
How was it they’d remember him? A statute? Medal? Plaque?
He stepped back in – he would know soon, with one more lethal whack.
The pitcher nodded once again. “Fastball,” he thought. “High.”
And despite his reluctance to throw that to this guy,
He sent the heater on its way – delivered in the zone.
It should have hit McCovey Cove (with help from growth hormone).
But it wasn’t to his liking, the batter seemed to think.
He didn’t have to put just anything into the drink.
The umpire hollered “Strike one,” and so the count was even.
The fans of course were on their feet, and none of them were leaving.
The batter thought again about the sum of his career,
but not his growing hat size or his now-bulging rear.
He’d earned fame and stardom and a private place to dress.
He could be rude to fans now, his teammates and the press.
And yet still they followed him, and his quest for the mark.
The network’s Pedro Gomez seemed to live at the park.
The slugger had enough locker room for both he and his ego,
where he could ask “Why hate me? Because I am a negro?”
Long ago in Pittsburgh he’d been a lithe outfielder.
He’d won a couple of Gold Gloves. He was a good base-stealer.
But then one day he realized – the stars, they were the sluggers.
It didn’t quite come naturally, so he became a drugger.
So what, it was against the rules? The rules? Apply to him?
And everyone was doing it – the needles at the gym.
And so he signed in Frisco – became a burly ox.
No one asked about doping – they were asking ‘bout his knocks.
The cream, the clear, the insulin, the human growth hormone.
Clomid, Deca-Durabolin and testosterone.
Giants brass looked the other way. He was their star, you see.
He’d never tested positive, it was “allegedly.”
He snapped back to the present and his feet dug in the dirt.
His muscles bulged against the sleeves of his size 52 shirt.
He waited for the kid to pitch, to get ahold of one,
to send a record-tying ball high into the sun.
But this ball, when delivered to the catcher, got away.
It bounced against the backstop as the umpire halted play.
The batter scowled and shook his head. He stepped back from the plate.
The kayakers and boaters in the Bay would have to wait.
The next pitch, it broke late. The rook had had some nerve!
He’d baffled the veteran with a risky hanging curve.
The batter swung and missed! At 43, he had been flummoxed!
What was it that confused him? The injections in his buttocks?
A third ball bounced up off the plate. The catcher gave a hop.
The count was full for the slugger to give the ball a pop.
The pitcher got the signal. He found the perfect grip.
The windup – the delivery – roared back and let it rip.
The batter saw it coming. A ball high – it was simple.
He turned his head and closed his eyes. The ball glanced off his temple.
The Giant fell and hit the dirt. The ump said, “Take your base.”
The trainer rushed the batter’s box and saw a blinking face.
The crowd simply fell silent. No, not a word was spoken.
For both the player’s helmet and his career were broken.
The next day on the radio, they couldn’t help but talk.
If his head hadn’t grown so much, it would have only been a walk.
Barry at the Bay
by Turner Walston
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Giants’ nine that day,
but no one knew the score (or cared) on the field of play.
Some fans, they booed. Some fans, they cheered. But they all stood in place
for a crusty old leftfielder well off the playoff pace.
A few signs went up in the crowd: “Steroids,” “Cheat,” they read.
The batter didn’t see them – he was focusing instead.
He knew they loved and hated him, he cared not anymore.
The home run total by his name read ‘Seven-fifty-four.”
The Commissioner, he was not there, and nor was Hammerin’ Hank
(the man whose claim to destiny would soon fall in the tank).
But Aaron had no asterisk next to his regal name,
for he’d done it the right way – he’d played an honest game.
No matter to our batter though, he was quite sure of that.
The record would be broken here tonight, in this at bat.
The pitcher was a late call-up. He shook there in his cleats.
He knew the batter’s résumé, his records and his feats.
The catcher gave his mate a sign. The rook nodded his head,
stepped slowly off the rubber, nervous, filled with dread.
The pitch cut through the summer air. It seemed to hang all day.
But “ball” bellowed the umpire – it was low and away.
The hitter stepped out of the box. He looked far down the line,
and thoughts about his legacy he let enter his mind.
How was it they’d remember him? A statute? Medal? Plaque?
He stepped back in – he would know soon, with one more lethal whack.
The pitcher nodded once again. “Fastball,” he thought. “High.”
And despite his reluctance to throw that to this guy,
He sent the heater on its way – delivered in the zone.
It should have hit McCovey Cove (with help from growth hormone).
But it wasn’t to his liking, the batter seemed to think.
He didn’t have to put just anything into the drink.
The umpire hollered “Strike one,” and so the count was even.
The fans of course were on their feet, and none of them were leaving.
The batter thought again about the sum of his career,
but not his growing hat size or his now-bulging rear.
He’d earned fame and stardom and a private place to dress.
He could be rude to fans now, his teammates and the press.
And yet still they followed him, and his quest for the mark.
The network’s Pedro Gomez seemed to live at the park.
The slugger had enough locker room for both he and his ego,
where he could ask “Why hate me? Because I am a negro?”
Long ago in Pittsburgh he’d been a lithe outfielder.
He’d won a couple of Gold Gloves. He was a good base-stealer.
But then one day he realized – the stars, they were the sluggers.
It didn’t quite come naturally, so he became a drugger.
So what, it was against the rules? The rules? Apply to him?
And everyone was doing it – the needles at the gym.
And so he signed in Frisco – became a burly ox.
No one asked about doping – they were asking ‘bout his knocks.
The cream, the clear, the insulin, the human growth hormone.
Clomid, Deca-Durabolin and testosterone.
Giants brass looked the other way. He was their star, you see.
He’d never tested positive, it was “allegedly.”
He snapped back to the present and his feet dug in the dirt.
His muscles bulged against the sleeves of his size 52 shirt.
He waited for the kid to pitch, to get ahold of one,
to send a record-tying ball high into the sun.
But this ball, when delivered to the catcher, got away.
It bounced against the backstop as the umpire halted play.
The batter scowled and shook his head. He stepped back from the plate.
The kayakers and boaters in the Bay would have to wait.
The next pitch, it broke late. The rook had had some nerve!
He’d baffled the veteran with a risky hanging curve.
The batter swung and missed! At 43, he had been flummoxed!
What was it that confused him? The injections in his buttocks?
A third ball bounced up off the plate. The catcher gave a hop.
The count was full for the slugger to give the ball a pop.
The pitcher got the signal. He found the perfect grip.
The windup – the delivery – roared back and let it rip.
The batter saw it coming. A ball high – it was simple.
He turned his head and closed his eyes. The ball glanced off his temple.
The Giant fell and hit the dirt. The ump said, “Take your base.”
The trainer rushed the batter’s box and saw a blinking face.
The crowd simply fell silent. No, not a word was spoken.
For both the player’s helmet and his career were broken.
The next day on the radio, they couldn’t help but talk.
If his head hadn’t grown so much, it would have only been a walk.
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