Regardless of your stance on players kneeling during the National Anthem, baseball is still the American pastime, rich with myths, legends and colorful language and imagery. The beloved poem, Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is the inspiration for my take on the circus surrounding the Presidential election results in Georgia.
Donnie at the Bat
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Trumpville mob that day: The score stood three-oh-six to two-thirty-two, with but steal attempts to play, And when Rudy dripped dye from his temples, and later farted without shame, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
The jubilant masses celebrated in the streets. The rest in kind Clung to conspiracy theories which spring eternal in the misguided mind; They thought, “If only Donnie could but get a whack at that— We’d put up even our children’s lives, with Donnie at the bat.”
But Flynn took the fall for Donnie, as Melissa performed like a flake, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Donnie getting to the bat.
But Flynn received a pardon, to the wonderment of all, And McConnell, the much despisèd, crumpled the Constitution into a ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Graham double talking and Flynn a-hugging a-turd.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose an unmasked yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled up from hell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Donnie, fascist Donnie, was advancing to the bat.
There was madness in Donnie’s manner as he overstepped his place; There was false pride in Donnie’s bearing and a smirk crossed Donnie’s face. And when, responding to the cheers, he doffed his MAGA hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Donnie 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 the GOP’s shirt; Then while the wisened judge gripped the law and refused to flip, Treason flashed in Donnie’s eye, a sneer curled Donnie’s lip.
And now the leather-covered tome came hurtling through the air, And Donnie stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the Paunchy batsman the law unheeded sped— “That’s all fake news” said Donnie. “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; “Proud boys stand back and stand by,” Donnie responded as he raised his hand.
With the blessings of white Evangelicals, Donnie’s orange visage shone; He stirred the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled recount to the judge, and once more the law sphere flew; But Donnie still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!” With one approving look from Don the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his tiny fingers strain, And they knew that Donnie wouldn’t let the truth go by again.
The sneer is gone from Donnie’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And the steadfast judge still holds the line, freeing the will of the people to flow, And now the air is shattered by the force of Donnie’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 Trumpville—loser Donnie has struck out.
“Casey” Image courtesy of C.F. Payne
Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is in the public domain
The Bridge is an enduring symbol of the conquest of ingenuity over physical obstacles. It is about creating connections where none previously existed. And, it is a metaphor for the basic human need to connect with others of a like mind, to be understood. I explored these cultural connections in an earlier post https://foursquaremiles.wordpress.com/2017/05/11/culture-of-one/
I have crossed a thousand bridges In my search for something real There were great suspension bridges Made like spiderwebs of steel There were tiny wooden trestles And there were bridges made of stone I have always been a stranger And I’ve always been alone
There’s a bridge to tomorrow There’s a bridge from the past There’s a bridge made of sorrow That I pray will not last There’s a bridge made of colors In the sky high above And I think that there must be Bridges made out of love
I can see him in the distance On the river’s other shore An his hands reach out in longing As my own have done before And I call across to tell him Where I believe the bridge must lie And I’ll find it, yes I’ll find it! If I search until I die
When the bridge is between us We’ll have nothing to say We will run through the sunlight And he’ll meet me halfway There’s a bridge made of colors In the sky high above And I’m certain that somewhere There’s a bridge made of love
Vou seguindo pela vida Me esquecendo de você Eu não quero mais a morte Tenho muito que viver Vou querer amar de novo E se não der não vou sofrer Já não sonho, hoje faço Com meu braço o meu viver
There’s no shortage of old stone walls in Connecticut. Most have been standing for hundreds of years. They were built from materials pulled from the land. When the glaciers melted and land masses were pulled apart by the forces of nature, Long Island was blessed with rich, fertile soil, leaving New England with an unyielding rocky coastline.
Walls are built to keep things out, or in
Walls define borders
Walls are passive by nature; they are not weapons—they are defensive
I’m sitting on this one, so I can view what’s on either side…