Dani At The Bat

The Americans in Paris (could make a good title for a movie) have been following the World Series of Baseball. To mark that and Germany's historic Venice Cup Victory we present with apologies our version of Ernest L. Thayer's immortal baseball poem, Casey at the Bat.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the German six that day,
The score stood minus forty-six, with but sixteen boards to play

And then when Andrea failed at first, and Barbara did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go immured in deep distress.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, "if only Dani could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Dani at the bat."

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Dani getting to the bat.

But Pony let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Sabine, the much desired, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Sabine safe at second and Pony a-hugging third.

Then from five hundred throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the VuGraph, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Dani, mighty Dani, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Dani's manner as she stepped into her place,
there was pride in Dani's bearing and a smile lit her face.

And when, responding to the cheers, she lightly doffed her hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Dani at the bat.

A thousand eyes were on her as she rubbed her hands with dirt.
A thousand hands applauded when she wiped them on her shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into her hip,
defiance flashed in Dani's eye, a smile curled her lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Dani stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Dani.

"Strike one!" the Director said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the Director!" shouted someone on the stand,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Dani raised her hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Dani's visage shone,
she stilled the rising tumult, she bade the game go on.

She signalled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Dani still ignored it, and the Director said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened hundreds, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Dani and the audience was awed.

They saw her face grow stern and cold, they saw her muscles strain,
and they knew that Dani wouldn't let that ball go by again.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now she lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Dani's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

and there is lots of joy in Germany --
mighty Dani has pulled it out.