Tilney at the Bat
By The High Priestess, with apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Woodston nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when John Thorpe died at first, and Bonilla 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 that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Tilney could but get a whack at that --
We'd put up even money now, with Tilney at the bat."
But Piazza preceded Tilney, as did also Rickey H.,
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 Tilney getting to the bat.
But Mike let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Rick, the much despiséd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Rickey safe at second and Mike 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 Tilney, mighty Tilney, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Tilney's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Tilney's bearing and a smile lit Tilney's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Tilney 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 Tilney's eye, a sneer curled Tilney's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Tilney stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Tilney. "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 some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Tilney raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Tilney'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 Tilney still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Tilney and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Tilney wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Tilney's lip, the 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 Tilney's blow.
Oh, somewhere in fair Gloucestershire the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing marching tunes, and happy hearts are light,
The village men are laughing, and children do the same;
Oh, there is joy today in Woodston -- Da Man has won the game!
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Since the HP ripped off most of this, she doesn't claim copyright per se, but violators will be cursed with a Newfoundland drooling in their tea.