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IN BASEBALL LAND BIGGER DREAMS TO DREAM |
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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 |
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‘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 |
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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!" |
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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 |
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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!" |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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"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!" |
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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 |
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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! |
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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) |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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"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 |
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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 |
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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!" |
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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 |
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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 |
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"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 |
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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! |
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With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer, author of America’s most popular poem "Casey at the Bat"* (first published June 3, 1888 in the San Francisco Examiner), upon whose form this has been so poorly rendered.
*the subject was player Brian Kavanagh Casey (1859-1946) and not famed player-manager Charles "Casey" Stengel (1890-1975). |