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Lamentations of a Red Sox Fan
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 edro on the Mound
An adaptation by Damon Waring of the classic "Casey at the Bat" By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
See original at: MLB.com
The outlook was brilliant for the Boston nine that day;
The score stood five to two, with but two innings more to play.
And then when Jeter doubled, and Bernie knocked him in,
An ominous sensation rose upon Red Sox Nation's skin.
I paced the apartment, Ashley left the room,
Grady Little went to the mound in an attempt to stave off doom.
We thought, "Pedro did well, but Yankee bats were starting to pound -
If we were Grady Little we'd take Pedro off the mound."
But Pedro convinced Little, as many stars do,
That his brilliance was not over and to let him see it through.
So upon that nervous Nation grim melancholy sat;
They knew Pedro well - in late innings he may fall flat.
Matsui let drive a double, to the wonderment of all,
And the Red Sox, were very lucky it did not roll to the wall.
And when the play had ended, and the Nation saw what had occurred,
There was Matsui safe at second and Bernie a-hugging third.
Then from fifty five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty cry;
It rumbled through the stadium, it rattled in the sky;
It pounded in Manhattan and recoiled upon the flats,
For Pedro, mighty Pedro's pitches were looking awfully fat.
There was ease in Pedro's manner as Posada took his place;
There was pride in Pedro's bearing and concentration filled Pedro's face.
And when, despite the jeers, his mitt he began to pound,
No stranger in the crowd forgot 'twas mighty Pedro on the mound.
One Hundred thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed the ball in his hand.
Fifty Five thousand tongues hissed when on the rubber he took his stand.
Posada took a few practice swings loosening up his hips,
Defiance flashed in Pedro's eye, a sneer curled Pedro's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Posada stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -
"That ain't my style," said Posada. "Ball one!" the umpire said.
From the TV's, around the land, there went up a loud roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Take him out! Bring in Timlin!" Red Sox Nation screamed aloud;
And it's likely Little'd have done so if Pedro was not so proud.
With a smile of Christian charity great Pedro's visage shone;
He ignored the rising tumult; he is calm standing on his throne;
He set upon the rubber, and once more the dun sphere spun;
But Posada still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike one!"
"Fraud!" cried the Yankee thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But the millions in Red Sox Nation were not close to being awed.
They watched him get his signs and quickly come to a set,
And quickly came the pitch and quickly came more fret.
Posada patiently took the pitch, McClellan called "Ball two"
What Little was thinking Red Sox Nation barely knew.
The bullpen gang was warmed and ready to bravely take Petey's place,
Trusty Timlin could get us out of this mess, you could see it in his face.
But in big games, many agree, Pedro is the man to trust
He gets himself out of his mess, rarely is he a bust.
This would be his crowning achievement, everyone would see;
When the new Sox star beat their former star in a heated rivalry.
A swing and a miss! The elated Nation gathered more faith in their ace
The strike out king was one strike away from shutting down the place.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that mighty Pedro would not miss his target again.
The sneer has fled from Pedro's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
Posada pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now Pedro holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the bat is shattered by the force of Pedro's throw.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Boston - mighty Pedro was not taken out.
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