Baseball Poetry: Tebow at the Bat

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LAKEWOOD, NJ - MAY 14: Tim Tebow #15 of the Columbia Fireflies looks on from the dugout after striking out in the top of the sixth inning against the Lakewood BlueClaws on May 14, 2017 at FirstEnergy Park in Lakewood, New Jersey. (Photo by Christopher Pasatieri/Getty Images)

By Dave Mitchner – Last Word On Baseball

On May 28, 2017, the Lexington Legends hosted the Columbia Fireflies in a traditional double-header, scheduled for two seven-inning games. The Fireflies are the New York Mets Single-A team. Tim Tebow plays for the Fireflies, and his presence to a sellout. Seven thousand people were at this game, most to see Tebow. The crowd regularly cheered when Tebow took the batter’s box. However he went hitless on the day, and struck out five times. The Legends and the Fireflies each won one of the games of the double-header, so no changes occurred in the South Atlantic League Southern Division standings.

When I got home from the game, I was inspired to write the following poem, a la that great 1880’s ballplayer, Casey at the Bat.

Tebow at the Bat

The weather was horrid, for the fans that Saturday;
the rain fell hard against the tarp, the players could nae play;
And when the announcer’s voice rang out, crowd it grew still;
the game postponed, to-morrow would be, a traditional double bill.

The Legends fans slept dry and well that night, ready to play two
But the Fireflies from Columbia’s fans had much more a to-do,
They’d come to see a hero play, whom the pigskin had made fat,
They wanted Columbia to take the field to witness Tebow at the bat.

Three home runs thus far this year, had Tebow sent right out,
The Legends pitchers were not worried, Tebow had no clout;
His average was but two-twenty, and though powerful his cut;
His timing and his eye made him look to take the butt.

In the top of the third early, his number came to peek –
And the women who loved the man cried a throaty shriek,
But he didn’t swing at all, the ball cut across his knees,
He glared at the umpire when he bellowed “Strike three!”

In the fourth of the early game, he came to bat once more,
With two outs, and Jabs on second, a hit would surely score,
Tebow, he made contact sure, and his fans gasped all together,
But you could hear a pin drop, when the ball found Gasparini’s leather.

A crescendo filled Whitaker Field, and Wynne, he lets it go,
And the very air around the plate was shattered by Tebow’s blow.
Carpio starts to run for second but then he takes a knee,
As the sixth is ended when the ump yells “STRIKE THREE.”

The second game, he’ll do it, theses visitor’s fans did say,
No one could believe their hero could go ‘O for the day,
He saw the plate in the second and the fourth, but brother,
I tell you now, as I was there, his bat never left his shoulder.

One last time he saw the box, to stance he took his tool,
The final inning of the games, or else he’d look the fool.
Davis gripped the white leather bean, and avoided Tebow’s eye,
For Andre Davis knew the well of hits had run dry.

In Lexington that evening, baseball fans gave cheer,
Their boys had won a close one, so they raised up all the beer,
To the fine pitching youngsters of their Single-A side,
Who had kept Tebow off the bases -struck out times five.

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