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Show HOW MURPHY SAVED THE DAY. By James Barton Adams. When Murphy went to bat the fans all said The ball would soon be numbered with the dead, For in his Irish eyes a gleam they'd caught Which told of murder when the ball he'd swat! He on both hands determinedly spat, With grip of desperation clutched the bat And struck a pose in a heroic way, Like eager lion waiting for its prey. The inning was the ninth last half of it And on the board the score stood three to nit In favor of the visitors when Pat Whose other name was Murphy went to bat. Two men were out, three to the bases hung, And on the swinging of the wagon tongue By him who stood defiant at the plate, With jaws set solid, hung the home team's fate! "Strike one!" the umpire howled, and every fan The noisy rooter and the silent man-Sat man-Sat glued into the bleachers still as death And watched the man at bat with bated breath "Strike two!" A chill swept o'er the eager crowd, And some their disappointment cried aloud, But not a muscle twitched in Murphy's face As stood he yet defiant in his place! The pitcher's arms gyrated o'er his head, And like a rifle ball the spheroid sped Toward the plate, and, like a lightning flash, The swift-swung willow met It with a crash! The fielders stared, the basemen upward gazed, The umpire scanned the heavens as if dazed, But nothing- saw they save a mass o'erhead Of mangled horsehide and wild tangled thread That soon was by the breezes tossed around In shattered bunches on the diamond ground, And Murphy and his pards each scored a run The ball was murdered and the game was won! And not a fan 'mong all who helpless fell Amid the bleachers could put up a yell; Because of Murphy's strike all suffered from A paralytic stroke that struck them dumb! |