For, believe it or not,
Though Long Lew had a lot,
Fanny had never had any!
Now, when all of Long Lew
Came into full view,
Miss Fanny collapsed in dismay—
She fell on the bench,
Did that long-legged wench,
With her skirts tucked neatly away!
There was wrenching and pounding,
The noise was astounding,
And still he had only begun!
But he banged and he bored
Till at last he had scored,
And Fanny cried out: "HOME RUN!"
No, I'm sure this is true:
Number one was Long Lew,
Though later, perhaps, there were many;
For, I swear on this spot,
Though Long Lew had a lot,
Fanny had never had any!
How he managed to pin her
And get it all in her
Remains an eternal league mystery;
But the crowd round the pit
All had to admit
That Long Lew Lydell had made history!
As for Fanny, though fallen,
She said: "Stop your stallin'
Long Lew, and prove you''re a pro!
I've seen your muscle,
Now show me some hustle:
You still got eight innings to go!"
Oh yes, I'm tellin' you true,
Her first was Long Lew,
Though later there were probably many;
For it's true, is it not,
That Long Lew had a lot,
But Fanny had never had any!
Well, Old Fenn came upon her
In total dishonor
And Long Lew in a state of fatigue;
He'd've made Long Lew shorter
But was stopped by his daughter,
Who said: "Daddy! I've made the
Big League!"
So the Knicks won the game,
And Long Lew his fame,
And Fanny had fun in her fall;
McCaffree was furious,
The fans merely curious,
And the moral is: don't win' em all!
Yes, this much is true:
The first was Long Lew,
Though later there may have been many;
For, believe it or not,
Though Long Lew had a lot,
Fanny had never had any!
Well, yes, it was a great wake, and as they joked and shouted, he saw that it was good, but yet it wasn't enough. Something was missing. "Hey! All you old pissers! Over here!" Rooney shouted,
"Whatsamatter, Pappy?"
"Get over here!"
"Pappy, if I take this bar out from under my elbow, I ain't got nothin' left to hold me up!"
But he kept insisting, and finally they all came, he gathered them all together, and when he'd got them all over, they looked back toward the bar, and there she was, nobody'd noticed her before, but now, there she stood, alone, at the bar. They wasted no time. They rolled the cot out from the back room. Old Jaybird Wall still snored there, biting his ass with his own dentures; they dumped him off and her on. No time or words wasted. They'd had enough of the putrefaction phase, they'd passed through the dissolutions and descensions and coagulations: what they wanted now was union. And oh yes, they seeded her well, they stuffed her so full it was coming out her ears, it was a goddamn inundation. .
"Well, it's a funny world," said Jake.
"Yeah… yeah, it is. You said it."
His name will shine down through all time,
Shine like an eternal flame,
For though he has died in his youthful
prime,
His spirit lives on in the game!
Hang down your heads, brave men, and weep!
Young Damon has come to harm!
They have carried him off to a grave dark and
deep:
The boy with the magic arm. .
Going into exile, heartsore, Sycamore Flynn stared out on the night, seeing nothing there, not even his own pale reflection, staring dispiritedly back into the coach. He had no thoughts, any more than a drowning man had thoughts, just anxieties, and his mind in trouble pitched here and there, rocked by the wheels' pa-clockety-knock, jogged loose from the continuum, sloshing here and there, the green and the gold, the suns and the shadows, the sons and the fathers, the sons and the fathers — and the piping cries of the sandlot boys, the leaping and throwing and running and swinging, all the games won and all the games lost, balls came bouncing at him, were thrown at him, flew by him, arched over him, and he was running back, and running back. .
He looked away. Running back. Tomorrow's game. Which was yesterday's. Pa-clockety-knock, pa-clockety-knock, nearer and nearer. Well, there was pattern maybe and legend and graphs and prophecies — but there was something else, too, and it came at you and it was hard and it was tangible, yes, to say the least, and sometimes you could field it and turn it to glory, but sometimes it hit you right in the teeth, and no, you couldn't stop it, you couldn't even duck. You couldn't even give it a name! He was afraid. Not only for himself. Not just for his team. For everybody. They'd all be there. Brock Rutherford Day at Pioneer Park. . plus two. Resumed. Substitution announced: for the Pioneers, pinch-running for. .
He'd thought of every possibility. Getting rid of Casey. At least benching him. Quitting himself. Withdrawing his Knicks from all further games this season. Proposing they call the rest of the season off, give the pennant to the Pioneers, who were anyway in second place behind them. Even: that they close down the Association. Why not? Because what would all the past mean then without the present process? Nothing at all, but so what? No answer: only dread. And everything less than that fell short or looked cheap. Finally, he supposed, it would resume, and he would simply have to play out his part. But he dreaded that, too.
His daughter had disappeared. She'd left no note. Hadn't been necessary. He knew what she was telling him and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do that would bring her back. Harriet was as dead to him now as her Damon was to Brock. Even more so, because Damon died and left no hate behind. In a way, Flynn envied Brock. No, that wasn't true. You're just trying to smooth it over, ease the guilt. You can still love her even though she hates; but what does Brock have to love? You can't love a corpse.