Baseball Poem

THE MAN WHO GAVE ALL THE DREAMERS IN BASEBALL LAND

BIGGER DREAMS TO DREAM

  by Michael J. Farrand

Every dreamer out in Baseball Land dreams the same big dream

He's hurting in the dugout, when he's called to save his team

In the bottom of the ninth, two outs, the count 3-and-2

He'll step in and with one swing, the impossible he will do 

'Twas the 1988 World Series, opening night

The L.A. Dodgers had a shot at global bragging rights

They faced America's greatest team, and her most athletic

Canseco and McGwire made their chances seem pathetic 

Doubts grew with the great shadows cast by the broad Oakland A's

Those left in the sad Dodgers camp found nothing to do but pray

Down 4-to-3 to Oakland in their last chance with the bats

Eckersley's appearance on the mound surely meant "That's that!" 

They scan the dugout for their hero, he who makes it happen

They see instead his teammates' faces, drawn tightly ashen

They know after Scoscia comes a patsy then the pitcher

This pathetic line-up holds not one heroic hitter 

Where was the man who saved them oh so many times before?

Vin Scully in the broadcast booth proclaims the hapless score

"The spearhead of the Dodger offense all throughout the year

Will see no action here tonight, because he's just not here!" 

Watching the game from the training room, legs encased in ice

He wants so badly to play, but the trainer says "No dice!"

With a torn left hamstring, and a stretched right knee ligament

The Dodgers greatest slugger would be lucky he could limp 

But hearing Vin Scully's words, appearing to seal his fate

Kirk Gibson throws off his ice packs, hoping it's not too late

"Set up a batting tee, get Tommy Lasorda in here!"

He shouts with all bravado—heroes like these show no fear 

Gibson struggles to his feet as Scoscia pops to shortstop

The left leg goes from under him, he hears the right knee pop

Lasorda waddles up the tunnel, Kirk says "I can hit!"

"You serious?" "Dead serious!" as he teeters a bit 

"Making me sit out the game here is a fate worse than death!"

Lasorda mumbles "God Almighty!" under his short breath

"Don't you want me?" the great slugger cries, trusting all to fate

"Damn right I want you", he mutters. "Just make your entrance late!" 

By now Hamilton has struck out, leaving them but once chance

The second-worst hitter in the park sets into his stance

Our grievously wounded hero now gingerly takes strides

Down the lonely tunnel, his east-and-west limps hard to hide 

In a rare moment of weakness, Eck gives Davis the walk

Down destiny's path our hero must stumble without balk

An impossible dream fills his mind, no bad thought enters in

It's down to him and Eck, and the Dodgers are going to win! 

The crowd goes stark raving mad, welcoming their hero in

Stadium dwellers stomp and shout, creating an earthquake din

Here's the man, the only man, to save them from this peril

(Even though he is stumbling in, like some drunken devil) 

His practice swings are herky, jerking his numb legs to life

To them it seems that each rotation stabs him like a knife

Their slugger has not faced real pitching in three whole days

But waves and waves of adulation wash his pains away 

His teammates celebrate, knowing the power of this man

To fight against impossible odds and make things right again

But after suffering his first two wincing, fouling swings

They lament the 0-2 count, and face the sad state of things 

Mike Davis steals second base, as was signaled by his coach

Lasorda's doubts that Gibson can do it prompt such a poach

Clearly he cannot come around on Eck's fast-pitched balls, and

A pained run down the line proves he can't push off or land 

"This is just where I want to be!" all baseball dreamers think

But when they consider reality, their vain hopes sink

Wannabe heroes in the stands put childish dreams aside

It's on this broken-down warhorse all Dodger hopes now ride 

Mighty Gibson, for his part, goes into survival mode

If he can't hit the fast ones, he will wait for something slow

Battling back with anything to avoid impending rout

With the count 3-and-2, from the batter's box he steps out 

Amidst the pandemonium, the huzzahs, and the shouts

He remembers Mel Didier's words, that sage Dodger scout

"In this situation, when Eck's facing a left-hander,

As sure as you're breathing, pardner, it'll be backdoor slider!" 

He steps back in on tenterhooks, guessing at the next pitch

Eck winds, curls, and releases the ball, all without a hitch

Gibby's swing is something ugly, an army-wristy stab

His wrenching follow-through suggests he won't survive the jab 

Somewhere baseball fans groan, while tossing peanuts in their beer

Somewhere a manager's fired for flubbing a chance so dear

Somewhere red-lighted car-fulls are pleased they left so early

Somewhere else the loyal fans are rewarded with glory 

"High fly ball into deep right field—she is GONE!" Scully smiles

Then for a few eternities, the rabid fans go wild

As the Dodgers charge the field in jumping jubilation

Kirk hobbles round the bases, pumping fists in elation 

Though the ball flew in the air three hundred and eighty feet

It could be said it rolled forever as the A's it did beat

It paralyzed their big bats and demoralized the team

And all the dreamers in Baseball Land can now dream bigger dreams!