'Twas hours before Opening Day, when all through the park
Not a player was stretching, not even Sunset Jimmy Burke;
The jock straps were hung by the dugout with flair,
In hopes that Babe Ruth would soon start to swear;
Each athlete was nestled all snug by their locker;
While visions of expletives conjured John Rocker;
And manager with his smokes, and I with my dip,
Had just packed tobacco like Baltimore Tommy Lipp.
When out on the lawn there arose such a batter,
I sprang from the bench to see ol’ Clyde Hatter.
Away to home plate I flew in a flash,
Grabbed a few bats and mimicked Norm Cash.
The lights over the infield on the freshly cut grass,
Displayed the shadow of an eerie Kevin Bass,
When what through my eye black did appear,
But a Ford Model T and a case of cold beer,
With a big old driver so loud and uncouth,
I knew in an inning he must be George Herman Ruth.
Faster than Rickey at the top of his game,
He hooted, and hollered, and shouted each name:
"Now, Lefty! now, Christy! now Sandy and Cy!
On, Willie! on, Henry! on, Mickey and Ty!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now swing away! swing away! swing away all!"
As pitches started to fly, along with some acclaim,
Swing for the fences, unlike say, Teddy Ballgame;
So out into the up-up-upper deck for a better view,
With a bag full of peanuts, The Babe in his natural milieu.
And then, in a bounce I heard one bang off the façade,
With fans cheering and clapping others tend to applaud.
I forced a few cuts and begin flailing around,
Down the baseline The Bambino came with a crown.
He was dressed in a bed sheet, from his head to his spikes,
And despite amusing the umpire, he was down to two strikes,
A bundle of stogies he had flung under his arm,
He looked like John Kruk with similar charm.
His eyes—how they twitched! his dimples, how bloated!
His cheeks were like cocktail napkins, his nose how loaded!
His big mouth was arched like a Gooden curve,
And when he stepped out of the box, it was more of a swerve,
With a dozen or so hot dogs he prepared to eat,
They encircled his head, a halo of tubed meat;
He had a fat face and short little legs,
That shook when he belched like exploding kegs,
He was portly and plump, a right jolly Hall-of-Famer,
And I cheered when I saw him, without a disclaimer,
A tip of his cap and a point of his finger,
Soon gave me the sense that the digit would linger;
He spoke not a word, but went back to his spot,
This was the Sultan of Swat, once again calling his shot,
And sliding his hands from the knob to the barrel,
This wooden Excalibur put the pitcher in peril,
He dug into the dirt and gave his team a whistle,
And on the very next pitch, it left like a missile,
I heard him exclaim and hit one out of sight—
“Happy Opening Day to all, and does anybody got a light?”
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.
