Billy at the Plate IP: 99.59.187.218 Posted on May 29, 2010 at 12:31:35 PM by GunnarGunnarsson
It looked rather bleak for the Highland kids that day;
The score stood two to three with but one inning left to play;
And so when Justin flied out to left and Henry did the same,
A hopeless gloom descended over the parents at the game.
For next was Billy, who picked a bat and took one practice swing,
Then smiled at Mom and waved at Dad, as he left the on-deck ring;
A muffled groan came from the crowd resigned to a dismal fate;
There was no chance of winning now with Billy at the plate.
Billy was the smallest kid on his baseball team,
The weakest and the slowest with no skills that could redeem;
But he still played in every game as he played them all,
Though every time he had his turn he couldn’t hit the ball.
As he stepped up to the plate a voice came from the crowd;
It was faceless like a rumor but a yell just as loud;
“Here comes the strikeout king,” he said, as Billy set his feet in place,
And downturned were the young boy’s eyes, red was his face.
The catcher on the other team took up the heckler’s call,
“The strikeout king never hits, he never hits the ball.”
And the players in the field echoed a taunting shout,
“He can’t hit it! He can’t hit it! Easy out! Easy out!”
The pitcher chuckled and sneered at him, then looked for the catcher’s sign.
He nodded once while he fingered the ball, then fired it on a line.
Billy slowly drew back the bat then took a swing at it,
But the pitch was faster by a second and smacked the catcher’s mitt
“Strike one,” said the umpire, and signaled with his hand;
And as the catcher returned the ball, the pitcher grinned with sure command;
He’d seen the little batter vainly miss his swiftest throw,
And he knew that sure as was the dawn, the batter was too slow.
So it seemed but the playing out of a script that had been penned;
Not on the small boy standing at the plate did the next two strikes depend,
But on the pitcher and his fastball, which winding up he threw,
And as if reading from his lines, the umpire said, “Strike two.”
Now again that faceless voice arose from the stands;
Loud enough that all could hear and clearly understand,
“Why does he bother to play the game, he’ll never hit the ball;
He’s too clumsy and he’s too slow and he’s just too darn small.”
With a silence that almost deafened all the people seemed to agree,
For not a soul spoke up to say he thought any differently;
Not a soul, that is but two, for now his parents called out,
“You can do it, Billy,” they stood and yelled, in a tone that spoke no doubt.
Billy stepped back and looked at them, and tears were in his eyes;
But there was too a fire that burned, a fire that never dies,
A fire born of heart and soul and all that dreams may get;
And then again the pitcher he faced, but now his jaw was set.
The bat he held in a firm tight grip and down he hunkered low,
And arched his back and dug his feet and waited for the throw;
Now the pitcher held the ball and now he let it fly,
And now Billy hit it square and sent it to the sky...
I should be saying how Billy fared: Did he win the game?
Did he round all the bags? Did the crowd shout out his name?
But that would miss the greater thing that summer day he won,
And the higher score that was tallied when the game was done.
Oh, somewhere in this troubled world, parents scream and shout,
Somewhere children are left alone, and somewhere they’re shut out,
And somewhere grownups hurt their kids and leave their hearts in tatters,
But Billy’s parents love him so and that is all that matters.