Vladdy at the Plate

 "Vladdy at the Plate"

(A lament in the spirit of "Casey at the Bat")

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Blue Jays nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning left to play.
And then when Bo flew out to left, and Chapman did the same,
A hush fell over Rogers Dome—a loss would seal their shame.

A few got up to leave the seats, the beer lines thinned with dread;
The hope that flared in earlier frames now flickered, nearly dead.
But still the faithful held their breath, as up there came the fate—
For standing in the batter’s box was Vladdy at the plate.

There was ease in Vladimir’s manner as he stepped into his zone,
There was power in his posture and a swagger all his own.
And when he tipped his helmet toward the silent northern crowd,
No stranger in the stands could doubt: their slugger stood unbowed.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he wiped dirt from his cleats;
Five million more leaned in at home from Scarborough to the Streets.
And when the pitcher, Kershaw’s heir, let go a ball so sly,
It darted just beyond the edge—and umps declared it high.

Then from the Blue Jays dugout rose a murmur, sharp and cold,
For hope had flared again anew; their story still be told.
And now the pitcher grips the seams, the signal comes in tight,
He fires off a wicked curve—a swing, and it’s a strike.

“Kill him! Slay him!” cry the faithful, as the fans begin to jeer,
But Vladdy’s face shows calm resolve, betraying not a fear.
He pounds his bat once on the plate, he breathes the autumn air,
And eyes the pitcher like a hawk, the tension thick with care.

Again the ball comes hurtling in—this one a darting flame,
And Vladdy swings with all his might, but finds no sweet acclaim.
The crack they hoped to hear resounds as nothing but a breeze,
The second strike has crossed the plate—it buckles hometown knees.

They knew that if he’d hit the ball, their dreams might yet arise—
To send the ball o’er center field and pierce October skies.
But fate, she is a fickle friend, and silence fell like lead,
As Vladdy watched the final pitch sail past—and heard, “Strike three,” instead.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere kids play baseball with joy none dare debate—
But there is no joy in Toronto—Vladdy has met his fate.