Tuesday, July 27, 2010

But first, something a bit different...

From time to time, the Art of Creative Misfortune will venture away from the NFL to other sports when an event of great significance or peculiarity strikes my interest. On July 20, 2010, one such event took place.

Reigning AL MVP Joe Mauer, superstar catcher for the Minnesota Twins, entered the batter's box against the Cleveland Indians with one out, the game tied 3-3, with runners on first and second in the bottom of the 7th inning. Joe Mauer, much to the confusion of almost everybody, bunted the runners over. 

Shocked by the unexpected decision by Mauer to bunt in this situation against an unheralded reliever, Minnesota sports talk radio was in an uproar. The local radio station KFAN celebrated the event with a reset of the famous poem Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, written by yours truly. 

Joe Mauer has been on a roll of late, going 8-17 (.471 BA) at the plate. He's belted 2 home runs, 2 doubles and driven in 9 RBI during the four games he has played since the ill-fated bunt on July 20th. All the more reason a player of his skills should never bunt late in a game with runners on base.

Without further ado, I present:

Mauer at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Twin City nine that day;
The score stood three to one, with but three innings more to play.
And then when Delmon died at first, and the fans’ worries came,
A sickly 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 Mauer could get but a whack at that -
We’d put up even money, now, with Mauer at the bat.

But Hardy preceded Mauer, as did Punto, Hud and Span,
The lineup had to make the turn so they could have their man;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Mauer’s getting at the bat.

But Hardy let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
Punto did his part, and Span tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the fans saw what had occurred,
There was Span safe at second and Punto a-rounding third.

Then from 30,000 throats and more there rose a lusty cry;
It rumbled through the city, and made the Indians want to die;
It flashed upon the scoreboard- at zero runs the deficit sat,
And Mauer, mighty Mauer, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Mauer’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Mauer’s bearing and a smile on Mauer’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Mauer at the bat.

Thirty thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Ten thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
The defense shifted before Mauer’s eye, a smirk crossed Mauer’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Mauer stopped it in logically efficient manner there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unexpected fell-
“I got it off the end a bit,” said Mauer. “You’re out!” went the yell.

From the benches, thick with people, there went up a muffled roar,
How could the reigning MVP not swing fully for the score?
“Kill him! Kill his contract!” shouted someone from the stand;
And it’s likely they’d a-killed him had not Mauer raised his hand.

With the smile of Baby Jesus, Mauer’s great sideburns shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the bench, and Kubel took his place instead;
To make the most of the chance envisioned in Mauer’s head.

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one knowing look from Mauer and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his focused glare,
And they knew Mauer knew Kubel was going to save them there.

The smirk is gone from Mauer’s lip, like all the fans, he waits;
And watches the Indians shift to face Kubel at the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now it flies with a burst,
And now the chance is lost by the weak grounder Kubel sends to first.

Oh, somewhere in south Chicago the sun is shining bright;
The team is winning somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy at Target Field – mighty Mauer drag bunted out.

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