The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the baseball throngs this fall:
The teams that move the needle had already dropped the ball,
And, so when Jeter hung ‘em up, and the Sox played their last game,
A pall like silence fell upon the patrons of this game.
A fitful few began to trump familiar loom. The rest clung to the hope which drowns infernal cries of baseball’s doom;
We thought, “If only KC could but get a whack at that-
We’d love to see a series, with KC at the bat.”
But Angels stood before them, as did those orange birds,
And the latter had the sluggers, while the former’s aces hurled;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of KC getting to the bat.
But Angels fell in three, to the wonderment of all,
Buck’s birds, though much acclaimed, could not win a game at all;
And when the dust had lifted, and we saw this blessed thing,
There was but one team standing between KC and the ring.
Then from ten million throats and more there rose a loud refrain;
It rumbled through the heartland, it rattled through the plains;
It pounded on the fountains and recoiled upon the “K”,
For KC, mighty KC, would meet the Giants by the bay.
There was ease in KC’s manner as fall’s classic they did meet;
There was pride in KC’s bullpen, and wings on KC’s feet.
And when responding to the cheers, they marveled at their chance,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas KC in the dance.
Forty thousand eyes were on them as they rubbed their hands with dirt;
But a million tongues applauded when they wiped them on their shirt.
And when the Giants’ pitchers ground the ball into their hip,
Defiance flashed in Gosmer’s eye, a sneer on Gordon’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
The nation stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
From the hand of old Mad Bum the ball unheeded spun-
“That ain’t my style,” said KC. The Giants took game one.
Then from couches, and the cheap seats, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of a twister and an all-too-close-by storm.
“We’re done! It’s all but over!” screamed voices round the land;
And it’s likely they’d have tuned out had not KC raised a hand.
With a smile of midwest charity great KC’s visage shone;
They stilled the rising tumult; they bade the games go on;
And, so the games continued, and once more the dun sphere sailed;
And KC kept a fighting, as each victory availed.
“Please!” cried the maddened millions, and echo answered “Please!”
Game six did go to KC, which sent us to our knees.
We saw their face grow stern and cold, we saw those Royals stand,
And we knew that KC would not let the ring slip through their hand.
The ball was placed in Guthrie’s keep, Skip Yost declared him ready,
Against those Giants hurlers, the bats would need be steady.
And then the Mad Bum held the ball, and then he let it go,
And then the air was shattered by the force of KC’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun did set this night,
The crowd has long since left there, the crew turned out the lights;
Somewhere fans are singing, and somewhere grown men shout.
But there is no joy in Mudville, mighty KC has struck out.
