Punto At The Bat- Mostly By Ernest Thayer

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the L.A. nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Kemp died at first, and Hanley 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 Punto could get but a whack at that -

We'd put up even money, now, with Punto at the bat.

But Abreu preceded Punto, as did also Choate,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a goat;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Punto's getting to the bat.

But Abreu let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Choate, 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 Randy safe at second and Abreu a-hugging third.

Then from 35,000 throats and more there rose a rollicking bark;

It rumbled through the ravine, it trembled through Elysian Park;

It knocked on out to Anaheim and recoiled upon the desert flat,

For Punto, mighty Punto, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Punto's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Punto's bearing and a smile on Punto's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Punto 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,

Defiance gleamed in Punto's eye, a sneer curled Punto's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Punto stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-

"That ain't my style," said Punto. "Strike one," Joe West said.

From the benches, blue with fanatics, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

"We want umpire accountability!" shouted someone on the stand;

And it’s likely they'd a-fired him then-and-there had not Punto raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Punto'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 Punto still ignored it, and Joe West said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Punto and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Punto wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Punto'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 Punto's blow.

Oh, somewhere in San Diego the sun is shining bright;

Vin is chatting somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere Manny is laughing, and somewhere dem bums shout;

But there is no joy in L.A. - mighty Punto has popped out.