A-Rod At The Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Yankee Nine that day;
the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Gardner died at first, and Ellsbury did the same, a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up, to go in deep despair. The rest....
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only A-Rod could get but a whack at that –
they'd put up even money, now, with A-Rod at the bat.
But Teixeira preceded A-Rod, as did also Brian McCann,
and the former was a lulu and the latter needed a hand,
so upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
for there seemed but little chance of A-Rod’s getting to the bat.
But Tex let drive a single, to the opposite left field wall,
and McCann, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
and when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred, there was McCann safe at second and Teixeira a-huggin' third.
Then from fifty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; it rumbled through the Bronx, it rattled Old Queen’s bell;
it knocked around the skyline and recoiled until it sat, for A-Rod, mighty A-Rod, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in A-Rod's manner as he stepped into his place; there was pride in A-Rod's bearing and a smile on A-Rod's face.
And when, responding to the jeers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas A-Rod at the bat.
Ten times ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; fifty thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in A-Rod's eye, injections in his lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, and A-Rod stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"PEDs ain't my style," said A-Rod. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, jammed with people, there went up a muffled roar, he’ll never be a member of the venerated Core Four.
“Pinch hit him! Pinch hit him!" shouted someone on the stand; and it's likely they'd have done so had not Girardi raised his hand.
With a smile of dishonest charity great A-Rod's visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
but A-Rod still ignored it, and the umpire said: "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud; but one innocent look from A-Rod and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and then they knew that A-Rod was on steroids once again.
The acne returned to A-Rod’s back, his body awaits its fate,
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 A-Rod’s blow.
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Oh, somewhere in the House of Ruth the sun is shining bright; the rookies are playing often, and their contracts are very light, and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; and there’s much joy in Yankeeville — for the last time A-Rod has struck out.
