Sherman "Tank" Killabrew At The Bat

—a poem for the brave men of the Oakwood Whiffle and Ale Clubpresented on the occasion of our hallowed award celebration, The Whiffies

The weather sucked for the Oakwood Whifflers that raw, spring day.
Commish threw two teams together from those who showed to play.
Yes, this manly crew had answered Facebook’s urgent call
to gather at Nance Bradds Field to play some whiffle ball.

Never mind the large white truck that’s parked in center field
the resolve of valiant men, even 18 wheels cannot force to yield.
They will persevere through heavy wind and, yes, even misting rain;
and a degree of summer’s heat that makes warm jello of your brain.

Where’s the crowds, you may ask, and all the shapely honeys?
Hah! These men play for love of sport, not fame or, even, money.
And what character they bring to this endeavor—
how erudite the field chatter when they joke together.

The game cycled towards its end, the home team fell behind.
The score was close, a narrow beat down—the most unkind.
You see, Krash had his heater working, and as if that was not all,
the Artist’s Moon Pitch was dropping like the New Year’s Ball.

Yes, the visitors were throwing smoke and all kinds of mystic junk.
Perhaps the home team bats were still locked in Commish’s trunk.
And even when they were finally able to make decent contact
They lined them straight to Stats and Mac, lurking near the track.

Thus the game went, into upper innings, as the clock neared 1030.
The 11th hour close at hand, a solemn time for heroes to get dirty.
Who would star for the home team, who would be their Achilles?
Could a man step up or would they stumble like ’64’s Phillies.

There was only the Poet, and then Commish to swing the bats
before Sherman closed out the side. And then the man we call Stats
would add this one to the books. Enough time for whiffle magic?

Just three outs left to change the home team’s fate from tragic.

The Poet, a rookie, headed to the plate as the visitors jeer—
“New guy? Didn’t he run to first?! Doesn’t he owe everyone a beer?”
The Poet lowered his head and stepped up to the plate.
He wasn’t ready for the pitcher’s speed and swung a bit too late.

Krash was on the mound that inning. He was throwing up a sweat.
Both pits of his Monarch’s T were ringed with salty wet.
Somehow, the Poet laced a screamer that skipped the first chalk mark
and lodged in square cut foliage at the edge of the school park.

He left his ghost a-haunting 1st, and Commish stepped up for more.
He took three wild balls that sailed far left of shore
like schooners blown off course through briny, greenish loam.
The possibility of defeat fell upon the visitors like a weighty tome.

Commish fouled pitch #4 off the hoops backboard. Hope dimmed
again for the visitors, but, thankfully, it caromed off the rim.
Then he flailed a mighty swing that that caught naught but air,
and after unwinding his manly bulk, spotted the ball lying there.

The count was full at 3 and 2, but that really doesn’t matter,
‘cause in the Oakwood Whiffle League you cannot walk the batter.
The pitcher must keep heaving, until he sends you packing,
or the defense stiffens, or you, the batter, do some whiffle whacking.

For the money ball, Krash focused his ascerbic wit
on the Red Sox’s awful season. Commish didn’t flinch a bit.
He dug in, a whiffle man standing tall at home plate,
and swung at Krash’s heater like a heartless reprobate.

The ball leapt from Commish’s bat and arced across the field
like a plastic comet. Both outfielders lunged, then reeled
as it landed past the chalked-in double mark
and sent the base ghosts further round the park.

With specters on second and third, and two outs upon the books,
their last batter took the plate, returning fielders’ defiant looks.
Sherman ‘Tank’ Killabrew may be the home team’s salvation
or, perhaps, another victim of the visitors’ defensive predation.

A hush came down upon Bradds field; somewhere a birdie chirped.
Killabrew took a practice cut then unleased a vicious burp.
He’s crushed a case of PBR, thusfar throughout the game.
Now, into the Whiffle & Ale Club annals, he’ll seek to etch his name.

His team is down 7 to 5, with one out left to play.
Ghosts on bases 2 and 3; Krash’s fastball in the way.
Tank can earn his glory here, with a homer off the wall,
or die in Whiffle infamy after the third strike call.

He watched the first pitch zoom right by, hit dead center of the box,
while swaying at the plate like a very drunken fox.
Krash wound up his next big throw, sweat streaming from his pores,
and Tank swung so freakin’ hard, he landed on all fours.

Yes, his mighty whiff took the count to a frightful 0 and 2,
yet he stood back up there at the plate, like he knew just what to do.
Tank pointed his plastic yellow weapon toward the left field fence
indicating the homer’s destination and Krash’s jaw set tense.

The pitcher bared down and mustered his remaining nerve
for one last mercurial heave, twisted on release, into a wicked curve.
The ball sped toward Tank, and seemed to head behind him.
Then its spin caught air and direction changed like fortune’s whim.

That ivory orb hooked o’er the plate and left Tank’s jaw a-hangin.
His muffled sobs were drowned out by the victors’ haranguing.
And exclamations of disbelief from Sherman’s crushed teammates—
He didn’t even swing! It’s a backward ‘K’ that sealed our fates!

It was a somber afternoon, that Saturday in Dayton.
Tank’s kids hid in their rooms, once they heard him ragin’.
And it was as if Nance Bradds’ Field was edged in funeral bunting
the ebony pall of defeat brought down a hush unrelenting.

But fear not, brave Oakwood Whifflers, the Spring will come anew.
We’ll all have another chance for glory, the entire whiffle crew.
For Whiffle season is but part of time’s march from year to year,
and Winter’s Theory Meetings are our chance to hoist a beer!

—Fred ‘The Poet’ Kirchner
Oakwood Whiffle & Ale Club Rookie, 2012 season