| The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
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 Deacan could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Deacan at the bat. But Flynn preceded Deacan, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Deacan's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Deacan, mighty Deacan, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Deacan's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Deacan's bearing and a smile on Deacan's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Deacan at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Deacan's eye, a sneer curled Deacan's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Deacan stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Deacan. "Strike one," the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Deacan raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Deacan's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Deacan still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Deacan and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Deacan wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Deacan's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Deacan's blow. 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 somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Deacan has struck out. |