PARODY Poem: The Only Joy in Mudville, by Chad Aaron Long

The baseball Gods were smiling
When we entered inning nine
We had them four to two
And we visitors felt just fine
We got Cooney out at first
Then Barrows the same way too
And most the crowd was leaving
Or headed to the loo

I felt a healthy confidence
Perched there upon the mound
And the few remaining fans out there
Of Mudville made no sound
I knew they wished for Casey
Still a few batters down the line
But with just one more out to go
This Mudville game was mine

The next man up was Flynn
who was a nothing at the plate
He would strike out easy
If I threw it down the gate
And If I somehow walked him
Up was easy-out Jimmy Blake
This inning would be over
If I pitched with no mistake

But Flynn somehow connected
To my chagrined surprise
And Blake to my amazement
Put it past where the eagle flies
And when the ball at last returned
Back into my mitt
Flynn had made it to onto third
Second base had Blake on it

Then the stands erupted
Bleachers shook with hideous noise
The men on the field all looked dismayed
As did the dugout boys
The coach’s face then soured
The catcher cursed and spat
That obnoxious brute named Casey
Was on his way to bat

He had that cocky swagger
Waving his hat up toward space
I could not wait to wipe that
Boisterous grin off of his face
I rubbed the ball upon my hip
To wipe off all the sweat
I did consider beaning him
Just to make that smirk regret

And now I let that fastball fly
I challenged right down the lane
The moron didn’t even try
That fool without a brain
He mumbled something haughty
As if it’d please the crowd
I felt a mild surge of glee
When the umpire barked out loud

And from the raucous observers
There went out a mighty yell
“Kill the Umpire’ they shouted
And I wished them all to hell
He made a pompous, lordly gesture
As it calmed the mad mob down
I expected tar and feathers
When it’s time to leave the town

With supercilious gait
He mocked me with a nod
The fans once again did settle down
As he hoisted wooden rod
I wound up fierce and once again
I hurled it down the pike
To find my catchers glove
No swing, but second strike

They screamed ‘Fraud!’ from the stands
‘Fraud!’ They yelled once more
But my rival again calmed them down
Then tapped his bat to floor
He contorted his face to a grimace
The one I always hated
He raised his bat and grew a scowl
He looked so constipated

I stared him down with bloodshot eyes
My windup poise was stoic
I had to pitch it past this guy
No matter how heroic
There may have been a sonic boom
Just then from Casey’s swing
And maybe I flinched imagining
How a line drive ball might sting

Tonight the old timers pat my back
Sweet girls giggle on my lap
Cigars are floating all around
The bar man frees the tap
All the food is on the house
Praise and revelry all about
But no joy is quite as much sublime
As striking Casey’s smug ass out