Mullet at the bat

With thanks and regards to

Ernest Lawrence Thayer -

Mullet at the bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Kingston nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Comey died at first, and Nadler 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 Mullet could but get a whack at that—
We'd put up even money now, with Mullet at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Mullet, as did also Jimmy Flake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Mullet getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Flake, 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 Mullet, mighty Mullet, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Mullet's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Mullet's bearing and a smile lit Mullet's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Mullet 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 Mullet's eye, a sneer curled Mullet's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Mullet stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Mullet. "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 raphy on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Mullet raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Mullet'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 Mullet still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Mullet and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Mullet wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Mullet'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 Mullet'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 gays are laughing, and somewhere snowflakes shout,
But there is no joy in Kingston—mighty Mullet has struck out.


As ever was,
Drcocktail