RONNIE at the BAT
In honor of Ron Vernon’s 65^th Birthday, October 31, 1997
(with apologies to Casey, and Ernest Lawrence Thayer, from Roy D. Goodman)

   It looked extremely rocky for the Zenball twenty that day;
   As usual nobody was keeping score, but it was the last inning of play.
   So when Parker died at second, and Nachman did the same,
   A pallor wreathed the features of the players of the game.

   Skelton said he and Max had to go, leaving there the rest,
   With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast.
   For they thought: "If only Vernon could get a whack at that,"
   They’d put even money now, with Ronnie at the bat.

   But Hovsepian preceded Vernon, and likewise so did Brewer,
   And the former was a pudd’n and the latter was a fooler.
   So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat;
   For there seemed but little chance of Ronnie’s getting to the bat.

   But Hovsepian let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all.
   And the much-despised Keith Brewer "tore the cover off the ball."
   And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
   There was Brewer safe at second, and Hovsepian a-huggin’ third.

   Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell—
   It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell;
   It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;
   For Ronnie, mighty Ronnie, was advancing to the bat.

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

   Thirty-six eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
   Eighteen tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
   Then when the pitcher Stein ground the ball into his hip,
   Defiance glanced in Ronnie’s eye, a sneer curled Ronnie’s lip.

   And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
   As Ronnie stood at the plate in haughty grandeur there.
   Close by the sturdy batsman the ball, unheeded, landed;
   Ronnie did not offer—"What was wrong with that?" left-fielder Smith demanded.

   Ronnie did not answer, for he stood at the plate and dozed;
   Shortstop Edwards, he was restless, for it was late and getting cold.
   The pitcher Stein threw another; once more the spheroid flew;
   But Ronnie, sleeping peacefully, let this pitch go by, too.

   "Wake up!" shouted Goodman, Dina, Gary, Mottola, Sackett,
          Golan, Ayers, Ten Hove, Dahm, Leland, Deshaw, Cox,
            (and everyone else whose names should be here) in unison they called;
   One scornful look from the aroused Ron Vernon and the fielders were awed;
   They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
   And they knew that mighty Ronnie wouldn’t let the ball go by again.

   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 scream,
   And regardless of what happened when Ronnie swung,
             remember—we’re all one team!