Teddy in the Vat
July 2002

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The outlook, it was dismal for the Joyville nine that day
The year was 2502, one inning left to play.
The fan base had eroded so, this game would be the last.
The onetime national pastime's time, alas, had finally passed.

A somber group of gravediggers were warming up their arms.
They prepared to bury baseball, the big teams and the farms.
A-grieving in the bleachers the remaining faithful sat.
"If only we could liberate Ted Williams from his vat!"

For baseball's mighty slugger had been frozen when he died.
They froze his sacred arms and wrists, they froze his rugged hide.
They froze him in the hope that he might someday un-retire.
But no one thought the sport itself would sicken, then expire.

And then from many thousand throats there rose as one, a breath.
A gasp of shock, surprise and glee, of victory o'er death.
For in the batter's circle, for the multitudes to greet
In suspended animation, there hung Williams by his feet.

There was frost upon his biceps as they opened up his case.
Liquid nitrogen was dripping from the creases on his face.
How the faithful cheered their legend as the slugger was unpacked.
How he tipped his hat to greet them! How his knees and elbows cracked!

Now he stood there stiffly legged as the light began to die.
The pitcher hurled a bullet. Williams watched as it went by.
The catcher muttered softly, "You took that one like a chump."
"I'm adjusting to the temperature," he said. "Strike!" said the ump.

The tumult from the bleachers was amazing to behold.
Not a fan among them noticed that the bat was green with mold.
Now his eyes returned an icy glare, he curled his frozen lip.
Now his red socks were de-icing. Now his cap began to drip.

Then came another missive from that demon on the mound,
Showing every indication it would splutter to the ground.
But then it rose, Phoenix-like, 'til level with his belt.
"Strike two!" the umpire said, as Williams felt his shoulders melt.

In the catered suites around the park the corporate sponsors groaned.
In the press box doing play-by-play, the glib announcers moaned.
In the stands, prevailing wisdom was, the greatest one had choked.
At the plate, the catcher noticed that the batter's box was soaked.

For the frost upon the slugger's brow had turned into a slush.
His uniform was sodden and his mitt was leather mush.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now it's on its way.
And now the air's alive with a ferocious swing and spray.

Oh somewhere there's a field of dreams with bleachers by the surf.
And somewhere bands are playing on some soggy outfield turf.
Although mostly it is dusty by the plate where umpires shout,
There's a pool of mud in Joyville, for Ted Williams has thawed out.

(With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer.)