The outlook wasn’t good for the Frisco nine that day,
The score stood 4-2 with but one inning more to play,
And when Klesko died at first, and Sweeney did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
But hope was fleeting, even still, for upon the bench there sat,
A mighty giant of a man, great Barry at the bat.
But before great Barry’d get his chance, three batters yet remained,
And so the watchers prayed and hoped a rally’d be sustained.
Somehow Linden found the ball with bat (unlike his glove),
And there ‘pon first he rested soon, as peaceful as a dove.
Now Klesko came and hacked away, and all the faithful groaned.
But when the fight was over he had second as his throne.
Now from the people rose a yell, a wave broke across the stands,
For while Aurilia had the plate, in the circle stood their man.
Mighty Barry had come forth at last, his arms in plastic clad,
And the patrons knew that very soon, he’d fustigate the cad,
That dared to throw him just one pitch acquainted with the plate.
So they stamped and yelled and howled, “Come on Richie, get on base!”
The pitcher let the spheroid loose, but the tumult was too great,
And the ball struck Aurilia on the leg ‘stead of crossing o‘er the plate.
And now the ‘Frisco faithful cheered and began to make their merry,
For while Aurilia limped to first, up came the mighty Barry!
The bases all were full, there was nowhere he could go,
‘Cept to put his mark upon the game and visit in the Cove.
Kayaks, rowboats, dinghies too all waited for the splash,
Of Barry’s mighty missile that would soon win all the hash.
And as the pitcher writhed Barry pounded at the dirt,
And finally the umpire signaled that all should get to work.
The catcher flashed the signs and then the spheroid came.
But it did not pass near Barry, “Ball one!” the umpire sang.
“Foul” cried the people, and echo answered “foul!”
“Kill them! Kill the pitcher!” the angry tumult howled.
But Barry raised his hand, and signaled for some calm.
Then with a nod he silenced them, and bid the game go on.
The pitcher let loose one more time, the ball was at his goad,
And once again it did not pass within the same ZIP code
Of Barry and his mighty bat. The crowd began to sag,
For it was clear the pitcher and his manager were cads.
Villains of the highest sort, who cared naught for honor,
And while the fans cried vengeance a third ball was upon them.
And now the runners readied, for this would be their chance,
To slowly walk around the pads while fans would boo and rant.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And it seems to all upon the field that time begins to slow.
Somewhere in this great land, mighty players have their chance,
To put their mark upon a game, with destiny go dance,
But there is no joy in Frisco, for as the watchers gawk,
Four balls have come across the plate; mighty Barry has been walked.
And then comes Omar V, Mendoza’s closest friend,
Soon after he has flailed and the game is at an end.
(with credit to Ernest Thayer's Casey at the Bat)