The Black Bat: Cantos I-VI
A Supernatural Baseball Epic
Harlie Radio image by Joe Haput CC BY-SA
The Black Bat: Cantos I-VI
by Cosmic Poet Simon Pole
I
Above the lake, upon a hill,
There grew a blasted, blackened tree,
Whose twisted roots long sipped their fill
Of what might on its grounds spilled be:
The life-blood lost, the fleeting breath
Of those whose end is violent death.
The lightning struck and seared its bark,
The leaves, they died and fell away,
As if the sky, where clouds frowned dark,
Could not it suffer one more day.
The best men would not cross its lot,
And even touch the worst dare not,
Until half-crazy we became
With passion for the baseball game.
II
The county cup was on the line:
A golden bowl, on which were etched
The champions past, what glories shine
On those old names, the ones who fetched,
And caught, and hit, and pitched the ball—
The giants sleeping fans recall.
There were two teams that summer hot
Who for the trophy fiercely vied,
And when they to the last games got,
They found themselves for first place tied.
There were the Monarchs, buff and spry,
Whose symbol was the butterfly.
Against them fought the able Cranes,
A side who made explosive gains.
III
Their coaches they tried this and that,
With resins, rosins, pails of tar
They bathed the ball and primed the bat,
But nothing seemed to take them far:
The treatments failed, the players whiffed,
And famous pitchers flatly stiffed.
They beat the bounds of sportsmanship,
And cursed: whatever is the answer?
It came to him, the Monarch’s skip,
I’ll get the natural Jake Dancer.
He was the best, the best yet born
Among the farms and fields of corn.
But with his talent came a price,
He was the very face of vice.
IV
It started early, while in school,
With skill beyond all others blessed,
Jake Dancer hated every rule,
And would not let his teachers rest.
Among the good he cannot stay,
Who will not man or God obey.
They kicked him out, and so he took
To crimes much worse: the theft of cars
And women’s hearts, and men were shook
By bloody fights in county bars.
Behold a man hell-bent for jail,
Bystanders whispered, without fail.
But smack a ball out of its hide,
And watch your indiscretions slide.
V
They found the tree a naked stump,
One overcast and misty morn,
And wondered then each coach and ump
Who did their direful warnings scorn?
What godless player grabbed an axe,
And felled the trunk with mighty hacks?
For from its branches nooses hung,
With dangling corpses were they decked,
And dirges mournful phantoms sung,
Enticing sailors to be wrecked.
In charms and luck ball teams believe,
Though faith in such might seem naive.
So who it was they had a hunch,
That watchful, superstitious bunch.
VI
But when at bat he next appeared,
A day game under sunny skies,
They scoffed to think they’d ever feared
The man they saw before their eyes.
Perhaps ill-living brought bad luck:
On three straight pitches out he struck.
But do not think his prospects poor
Who fans or fouls out at the plate,
If once he hits two at-bats more,
And reaches base, they count him great.
So Dancer ground his heel and spat
And took away his standard bat.
What in the dugout lay concealed
Would in late innings be revealed.