A.J. At the Bat
Sunday, October 16, 2005
By Phil Kadner
Daily Southtown

(With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer, author of “Casey At the Bat”.)

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the South Side Nine that day.
The score stood 1-1 and looked to remain that way,
And when Everett died at the bat and Rowand did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
But from 40,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled along 35th Street, it rattled over the el;
It recoiled against the Sears Tower and pounded cross the lake;
For A.J., mighty A.J., was marching to the plate.

There was ease in A.J.’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was a pride in A.J.’s bearing and a smile on A.J.’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt t’was A.J. advancing to the bat.
80,000 eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
40,000 tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in A.J.’s eye, a sneer curled A.J.’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and A.J. stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman, the ball unheeded sped,
“That ain’t my style,” said A.J.
“Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the bleachers, full of people, there went a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone in the stands,
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not A.J. raised a hand.
With a smile of Christian charity, great A.J.’s visage shone,
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the sphere flew,
But A.J. still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!’
But one scornful look from A.J. and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain
And they knew that A.J. wouldn’t let the ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from A.J.’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 A.J.’s blow.
Some say instinct played a part, some say he was trying to flee
The record shows A.J. took off running, as the umpire yelled, “Strike three!”

For a moment there was silence, a feeling of disgrace
But a roar erupted from the stands as A.J. neared first base.
The ball rolled to the pitcher’s mound, the Angels left the field.
Still A.J.’s legs churned on and on, as he refused to yield.
Somewhere in the bleachers someone shouted, “He’s gone mad,”
A mother hid her children’s eyes and whispered, “This is sad.”
Some meekly accept their destiny, some shape it to their will.
A.J. chose to run from it, displaying more guts than skill.

And as his charge continued, 40,000 hearts began to soar.
After 86 years of infamy, it was time to even the score.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
On the South Side men are laughing, and little children shout,
Buy a beer for A.J., the hero who struck out.