Custy at the Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Oakland nine that day,
The score stood seven to five, with just one inning more to play.

And when Shannon Stewart died at first, and Swisher did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

But then with Chavvy safe at first and Bradley at the bat
A whack,a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet spat
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Looks like we're tied at seven, but the outs still number two

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human air.
They thought, "if only Custy could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Custy at the bat."

But DJ preceded Custy, as did also Bobby C.
and the former was a lulu, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Custy getting to the bat.

But Johnson let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Crosby, much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw that in a burst
there was Danny safe at second and Bobby hugging first.

From thirty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Custy, mighty Custy, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Custy's manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Custy's bearing and a smile lit Custy's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Custy at the bat.
Sixty thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Thirty thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Custy's eye, a sneer curled Custy's lip.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and then the ball is shattered by the force of Custy's blow.

Above the left center field fence in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Thirty thousand hats thrown in air, thirty thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Custy hit.

O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Oakland hearts are happy now, for Custy hit the ball!