Cespedes at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mets that day:
The score stood four to three, with but one half inning more to play,
And with two runners on base, we were fighting much 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 Cespedes could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Cespedes at the bat.”

But Nimmo preceded Cespedes, as did also Travis D,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter hit like a flea;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Cespedes getting to the bat.

But Nimmo let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Travis D, the much despisèd, took ball four as the call;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw our ninth inning burst,
There was Nimmo on at second and Travis D on at first.

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 Cespedes, mighty Cespedes, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Cespedes manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Cespedes bearing and a smile lit Cespedes face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Cespedes 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 Cespedes eye, a sneer curled Cespedes lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Cespedes stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Csepedes. “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 Cespedes raised his hand.

With a smile of charity great Cespedes 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 Cespedes still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Cespedes and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Cespedes wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Cespedes 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 Cespedes blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
Deep fly ball to center field as Inciarte neared the wall,
Some fans heard screams as they walked down the hall.

Looks like a home run for all to see,
Inciarte runs and stretches with his hands free;
He snares the ball in his mitt, from the mighty clout,
But there is no joy in Citi Field—mighty Cespedes has flied out.