Our squad’s outlook was not too brilliant on that awful day.
It was losing four to two with but a half-inning to play.
And Coonan got put out at first, and Barrows did so too.
No patron said a word; it was so sad, I couldn’t boo.
A straggling group of fans got up to go. But I would stay,
Clinging and hoping that our bats would allow us to play
On. And I thought, “If only KC could but whack at that!
Our odds would climb sky-high now if KC got up to bat.”
But Flynn was up first, and following him was just Jimmy Black.
And Flynn wasn’t any good, and Jimmy was a sad sack.
So upon that crowd, thinning out, just grim frustration sat,
For it didn’t look good that KC would find a turn to bat.
But Flynn swung hard and wound up with a hit, surprising all,
And though nobody thought that Jimmy Black could slug, his ball
Was trash following his clutch hit. And so Flynn had to gird
Up his loins to run around and finally stop at third.
And so, rising up from thousands of throats, a lusty shout
Was born to go both up and down as soon as it got out,
Knocking upon a mountain, bouncing back upon a flat,
For KC, mighty KC, was advancing up to bat.
KC was calm but tall and proud walking into his box,
Smiling in vibrant uniform and tugging at his socks.
And as, noticing all our roars, KC took off his hat,
Nobody among us could doubt who it was up to bat.
So thousands of us, watching, saw him rub his hands with dirt
Thousands of us, applauding, saw him rub hands against shirt.
And as our opposition ground ball against pitching hip,
KC stood waiting to rally, a smirk across his lip.
And now, a cork-and-cowskin wrap ball was hurtling through air.
And KC stood a-watching it; a haughty, proud affair.
Right by our sturdy batsman, it just stuck to its flight.
“That’s just a ball,” said KC, but his vision wasn’t right.
From our grandstand, black with fury, was a dull but angry roar,
Cold and distant, strong and tidal. “This is not what I paid for!
Kill him! Kill that blind man!” was our outcry in our stand
And I was about to kill him, but KC put up his hand.
I saw through Christian charity how KC’s soul was strong.
Stilling our rising tumult, urging things to go along
And nodding moundward till again a ball was coming through
KC stood still again, his count falling to oh-and-two.
“Fraud!” was our angry shout, and faraway sound too said fraud
But a scornful look from KC, and I sat straight as a rod.
I saw his focus growing cold, I saw his body strain,
Knowing KC would swing, hoping hoping wasn’t in vain.
No smirk now stands on KC’s lip; his mouth is shut. His wrists
Pound his bat up and down, his furious hands forming fists.
And now our opposition holds his ball, and now’s his throw.
And now air falls to shards against KC’s imposing blow.
Oh, in a lucky city far away, shining sunlight
Blurs with music from a band playing, making spirits bright.
That city’s mood is happy, kids run and play and shout,
But our town knows no joy, for mighty KC has struck out.