The Boys in Blue, down in the eighth,
Four runs to catch will take great faith,
Batters bounce up to the plate,
Eager, hungry to change their fate.
Balls fly foul as bats crack and creek,
As past the short stop, balls must sneak,
Like a blacksmith’s hammer, these boys
Work the pitcher while keeping coy.
The man on the mound winds, delivers,
Shooting arrows out his quiver,
More bat-cracking balls shot in play,
Sending the infield in a fray.
Single! Single! two men on base,
Worry covers the pitcher’s face,
Two on—none out—single next,
Load those bases, they will be vexed.
Single! and move those blue runners,
Pinch-run, send in a blue gunner,
One man called home, on three such hits,
Three outs to go, to cause great fits.
Single again! drive that man home,
Quiet that crowd and covered dome,
Now we need two, errors will do,
There’s one, indeed, it brings in two,
The game’s now tied, the blue boys smell blood,
Pouring like a forty-day flood
Their runs upon doubting pagans,
Stealing bases; righteous Fagins.
A strike-out, one down, now a steal,
Open first, leaves no double meal,
The next man walks, bases they load
Rushing not their all-patient mode.
Moments now are quite intense,
The batter doesn’t swing for the fence,
But like our Lord who lowly bowed,
His frame rejected to be wowed,
And gave Himself up on the cross,
A sacrifice, becoming dross,
So this brave blue batter,
Rejected praiseworthy matter,
Cracked that bat, called out on his run,
His comrades cheered, they did not shun,
Their fearless faith, his sacrifice,
Forgave them all their early vice.
That go-ahead, prodigal son,
Their lead-boy came home, his work done.
The Desert Schooner,
Las Vegas, Nevada
Monday, October 12, 2015
Painting: “Sign for the ‘Blue Boys’ Inn'”
Oil on wood, late 1700s