Jim
Foley had hoisted a jar
In
every bar and tavern
Straight
through greater Boston
Loading
and unloading wagons
Is
thirsty work
You
need to oil the back and shoulders
So
the aches and pains
Don’t
feel so bad
It
didn’t matter if Jim was
Bending
the elbow
In
Scollay Square in the city
Or
out in some farmlands shanty
In
a North Shore seaport
Or
one of his neighborhood haunts in Dorchester
He
was always there on the wall
Kelly.
The King.
That
Black Irish dandy
We
bought to be the Boston club’s star
Chicago’s
loss, our gain
One
of us. A working man.
This
Kelly. The King.
He
played the game that was our game
The
game that we made ours
The
game of standing, hand on hip
Then
sudden breakneck outstretch
Of
waiting for the pitch to come to you
And
putting it behind their backs
Which
was just what Foley had done
On
every sandlot around Dorchester
Showing
his skills with the glove and bat
That
he knew the American game
But
this cocksure fella. This Kelly
Wasn’t
satisfied just to play the game well
When
he was behind the plate, he would talk
A
load of blather to the batter and umpire
To
distract them from the pitches
Raced
up the line alongside the runner
In
case of an overthrow
Staged
trick plays to draw the runner off base
Cheeky
Irish mischief he added to the game
But
he was the very devil on the basepaths
Studying
the pitcher on the mound
Timing
his delivery to the plate
Exploding
toward the next base on the ball’s release
Launching
himself through the air to the right of the bag
As
he reached a hand in to grab a corner of the base
Effectively
avoiding the fielder’s tag
Jim
Foley squeezed tears of rage into his pint
Over
all the years he slid straight into the base
And
hoped for the best.
Why
did no one ever think of this “hook slide”
Until
this brash mick came along?
He
knew Kelly’s parents came across the pond before he was born.
Is
this the special alchemy that set him apart?
Why
Foley would never get the bog off his boots
Because
he was not native to the infield dirt like the King?
Why
Kelly could share a taste of the flask
With
the fans in the middle of the game
Wink
at the ladies and flip the bird at the owners
All
while playing the game with swagger and ease?
Folks
who weren’t even fans knew his name
Thanks
to that music hall song, Slide, Kelly,
Slide!
Which
got some enterprising prick to mass produce
Those
prints they hung in every bar
And
they didn’t even get it right
They
had him sliding in head first
Giving
the fielder an honest chance
Without
a bit of sly trickery
Foley
downed a shot of whisky
Then
sent the shot glass screaming
Into
the picture on the wall
With
his very best Legion ball fastball
These
people didn’t appreciate the man
They
were bandwagon jumpers
Parasitic
pretenders
They
didn’t understand what this man did
Our
man
The
pride of the race!
Using
his wits to stand out from the rest
As
the bartender ran Foley straight out on his ass,
He
cried,
“That’s
why they call him
THE
KING!”
No comments:
Post a Comment