Brady at the Bat

By Lewis M. Brooks, III

(With Sincerest Apologies to Ernest Thayer and all the Patriots fans suffering along with me thing morning.)

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the New England team that day.
The score stood 21 to 17, with but 57 ticks to play.
And then when Deion died on first, and on second Aaron did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the Boston sports fan’s breast;
They thought, if only Brady could get but a whack at that,
We’d put up even money, now, with Brady at the bat.

But Eli was besting Brady, he was more than Brady could take,
Eli was lucky more than anything, he was really just a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Brady beating that NY brat.

But Deion caught one for 19, to the cheers of one and all,
And Aaron, the highly touted, made a great catch of the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
They set 56 yards from victory, the last of New England, they had not heard.

Then from millions of throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through New England, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon mount Monadnock and recoiled upon the flat,
For Brady, mighty Brady, he had another chance at that.

There was ease in Brady’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Brady’s bearing and a smile on Brady’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hel-mat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Brady at the bat.

Millions of eyes were on him as he looked around, alert,
Millions of tongues applauded when he adjusted his blue shirt,
Then while the writhing center ground the ball down on its tip,
Defiance gleamed in Brady’s eye, a sneer curled Brady’s lip.

And now the oblong pigskin ball was hiked back without err,
And Brady, he did receive it, in haughty grandeur there.
From the sturdy quarterback, the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Brady. “Too many men,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on the stern New England shore.
“Kill them! Kill the Defense!” shouted someone in the stand;
And it’s likely they’d a-killed them had not Brady raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Brady’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the center, and once more the pigskin flew;
But Deion didn’t catch his throw, and that was it for down two.

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Brady and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Brady wouldn’t let that ball land incomplete again.

The sneer is gone from Brady’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his foot down, for he can’t wait.
And now the center holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Brady’s throw.

Oh, somewhere in great New England, the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and Giants fan’s hearts are light,
And somewhere Peyton’s laughing, and somewhere Yankee fans shout;
But there is no joy in New England, mighty Brady has struck out.

The End

This was my own personal form of therapy.  I’m going to throw up now.

Pitchers and catcher’s report in 13 days!  (Thank God!)

Thanks for reading!