GIBSON AT THE BAT
The outlook wasn’t good for the bums that day;
The score stood four to three, with but one out to play
And when the Davis we knew as Mike had his number called
Silence and a feeling of despair overcame us all.
The usual suspects began a max-exodus into the night
Car doors closing, Engines starting, and those infernal parking lights;
Among the faithful, a straggling few clung to just one single prayer
“God, let Kirk Gibson hit” and all will be square.
But though we dared to dream, it was not meant to be
Dave Anderson? Standing on deck for all of us to see
The manager had lost it, what could he be thinking?
One angry fan groaned “Tommy must be drinking”
We must have our hero was all of the talk
So confused, no one noticed Mike Davis had drawn a walk
And before we could say it, Anderson retreated
They’d have to get Gibson out, before the bums would be defeated!
Then as if one, fifty thousand voices roared in speech
It carried to the valley, you could hear it at the beach
From the East side to the West side, just like Randy Newman said
Until they got Gibson out, the bums would not be dead!
Ever so slowly this decorated warrior hobbled to the plate
Conscious of his place, yet un- aware of his fate;
He’d brought the bums to glory before his body began to fail
Now, they asked him to write an end to this tale
Defying the warrior decked in gold and green
Oaktowns reliever stood surly, confident and mean;
His wind up was wicked, The “Eck” was his name
His slider spit venom, his fastball sparked flame.
The “Eck” whirled, and our hero waved in vain
That dastardly slider left him crumpling in pain.
“Strike One” came the call from the ump
“Two more” the Eck smiled to himself, “and I’ll be done with this chump”
Next was that fastball, thrown with no fear or care
True to its rep the sphere danced and sizzled, it seared the air
Gibson flailed and fell but there was nothing he could do
Fifty Thousand hearts in our throats, as the ump said, “Strike Two!”
One Hundred Thousand eyes were on him as he rose from the ground
Fifty Thousand tongues, couldn’t utter but a sound
How could The Eck simply do what he pleased;
How had he brought our hero to his knees?
“This Old Man can’t hit and I’ll strike him out for you all to see”
The Eck taunted the bums fans with just a little too much glee
But the crowd came to their hero’s defense, and The Ravine began to rattle
And Gibson stared The Eck down announcing, “we have only begun our battle”
So it proved true that our hero was right,
Gibson stood strong, fouling off pitches into the night.
The Eck glared and he sneered and he kicked at the mound
But though he tried, no answer to Gibson could be found
With each fouled pitch the volume in the stadium was raised another degree
And they could hear em’ in Oaktown when the ump said “ball three!”
With that the bums bench erupted with cries, of “you can’t tame us”
And Gibson warned the Eck, “throw me that slider and I’ll make you famous”
The pain was gone from Gibson’s body as he stepped up to the plate
Time for the hero and the Eck to decide each other’s fate.
And now the Eck lets the pitch go, his demon slider bites and hisses
But this is the tale of a hero, and this one never misses.
Gibson crushed that pitch, the Eck could only watch it fly
And the bleacher bums welcomed it like mana from the LA sky
I can see it today as clear as I saw it then, the flight of the ball never slackened
As Gibson rounded the bases a voice from heaven announced “In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!!!”
Oh, somewhere in the City of Angels the sun is shining bright, that’s no surprise
And somewhere fathers are sitting with sons, they’re getting moist in the eyes;
It’s hard for us to tell this old story about an LA great
Back when the Dodgers won the World Series, in nineteen eighty eight.
Merry Christmas Dodger Fans!
