When you read WAPO and game summaries, do you have trouble understanding what actually happened at the Nats' baseball games?
Do you ever think the WAPO writers are trying to outjockey T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, and William Faulkner, combined? Me, too.
Hullo, hullo, any editors left?
Therefore and here below in living English, mostly, (with some poetry thrown in) is what happened at Sunday's game, Nats v. Phillies.
It was a perfect afternoon for baseball (well, almost, depending on whether you were sitting in the shade or the sun).
Phil fans were there, of course, in great numbers but not in the vast amount of conspirators they've been known to occupy in our quarters, ever since we took back our stadium from the upstarts.
Shadows were growing on the field towards the end of the game. It was the beginning of the ninth and we had watched the Nats' lead (3-0 before the fifth) shrink during the afternoon when the Enemy scored once in the fifth and twice in the sixth to tie the game.
In all their wisdom, the Nats' brought in closing pitcher Papelbomb who, yes, threw a home run in the ninth. Thanks, Pap!
(He's the one everyone hates since he tried to strangle our star player, Bryce Harper, in the dugout last year. This is a true story. In the dugout! Our starring guy! Never mind a star's murder in the dugout. Who was watching? Oh, just everybody since it was telecast only live on TV! Who will ever forget that? We won't forget it, no matter how hard Nationals' management tries to make us.)
Where was I?
In the ninth at the Nats.
On Sunday it was rather disappointing, even though the Nats were having a great day, that Bryce wasn't playing. The players can't play every day. They got to have a day off, right? Even though it was my first game of the season.
Okay, so closer Papelbomb throws his home run in the ninth (I realize this has already been said but it bears repeating), and away the Phils go with the lead, just like that!
We get to the bottom of the ninth with the score, 4-3. We are holding out breath. We have all watched this show before. It happens.
When suddenly,
Out from the dugout there came a big splash,
a Star and his bat, it made my heart crash,
My son did exclaim, and he shouted for joy!
"They're bringing in Harper! He is our fast boy!"
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But Bryce Harper, his bat, confronting the Phil,
With his big, bold hit on the bat I just knew
He raced to first base, bypassing a shoe.
Elvis had arrived! Died, gone to heaven and come back, straight to Nats stadium. Back from the dead! There he was! Mr. America!
The stands erupted in melee when Bryce came out of vacay to hit.
Celebration! Screams, explosions in the air. Yells, on your feet. "Everybody, clap your hands!" Clapclapclapclapclapclapclap!
Bryce got to first, and Danny Espinosa soon followed.
We still had high hopes of beating that awful Pennsylvania team, especially since the Pennsylvania Industrials had beaten our precious Caps way back when.
Now we had a man on first and second, and Bryce was the tying run.
Ecstasy (without drugs) and no one suspected the other cool surprise which lay ahead. (Baseball is full of surprises, not all of the good kind.)
The supply of Nats pinch hitters seemed endless, and the outs were two.
As I looked at the field and was turning around,
there came the Old Man up to the mound,
He was dressed in the right colors
from his head to his toe
He got ready to deliver the last, fatal blow
His eyes - how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His face was hidden by lots of red hair
Which fell down behind him, a chill Phil nightmare
Lo and behold, I tell you the facts, the "Old Man," the savior who, in a totally independent data-driven study by three scientists, was found to bear a remarkable resemblance to Jesus Christ Superstar, comes out on the mound, to an exploding stadium, filled with standing and screaming fans heard as far away as the Washington Cathedral (confirmed by the gargoyles which hang around outside).
His modern-day name: Jayson Werth.
The Phil pitcher took it to a full count, and
We wheezed, and we breezed,
and we made our pleas, please,
to our man on the mound,
our Hercules.
Werth breathed slowly, to match his pace. (You ever seen him walk out to position? He is slower than Metro on a slow track day.)
We stood and watched.
There was no time to pray.
We heaved, and we sighed.
We wanted our way.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
Which showed to the nation that old men do matter
Over the tops of their heads
And exceeding arms' length,
Werth hit it and sent it beyond Phil boys' strength
Werth shot out that last pitch which skidded between second and third, and Harper and Espinosa raced home, Bryce running to home plate from third and waving his arm around and around like a wheel on a locomotive at 200 MPH, urging Espinosa to "bring it all home, boy!"
And they did, just like that: The Nats won, 5-4.
Meanwhile, Werth was still running for his life, since Pap was chasing him with the rest of the team beyond first base into the great unknown, to screams and yells like the rest of us, Werth losing his helmet on the way.
Now, Taylor!
Now, Murphy!
Now, Ramos!
And Espie!
On, Pappy!
On, Solis!
On, Harper
And Heisey!
To the top of the wall
To the rim of the fence
Now, dash away!
Run away!
This is how to play ball!
And I heard them exclaim,
Ere they soared outa sight,
Happy Baseball to All,
and to All a Good Night!
patricialesli@gmail.com
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