The Molly Chronicles - Molly at the Bat

My First Time at Bat

            An ominous chilling San Francisco afternoon with fog rolling in from the Pacific, it was the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the score four to two in favor of the San Francisco Giants.

            We had runners on second and third. I was sent in to pinch hit for Brandon Snyder who had pulled a hamstring while making an amazing save.

            "Don't swing, Molly," the Coach Colbrunn told me. "Let them walk you. David Ortiz is up next. We'll pin our hopes on his bagging a grand slam."

            Confidently I strode out onto the field listening for my name to be announced over the loud speaker.

 "Pinch hitting for Brandon Snyder - Molly."  A long silence followed.

"Wait this can't be right. Someone turn off the mike."

When the mike clicked back on the announcer was dithering.

"Folks, I can't believe this. Molly is a dog! A DOG. Is that even legal??? The Giants are challenging her eligibility. Rule books are flying. The Giants' coach is shaking his fist in the air. I can't believe this. I've heard some cussin' in my day, but nothing like this."

The microphone crackled and fizzed with static. Finally the announcer came back on the air again. "They're going to let her play. You're seeing history today, folks, the first canine to play in major league baseball! They're going to let her play. That's right. You heard me, folks, they're going to let the collie play!" 

I gripped the bat in my teeth, crouched into a batting stance, and waited.

 "Unbelieveable! Absolutely unbelieveable! How's he ever going to get the ball into her strike zone? He has the width of a baseball plus, maybe... a foot to spare. Okay, he's winding up; he throws; the pitch is... I can't believe it. He did it! It's a strike! Fast ball, just inside the corner pocket."

            I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Surely he couldn't do it again. What if I struck out? I couldn't live with the shame.

            But then I remembered a famous poem, "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer. This was the same situation, - ninth inning, four to two, but instead of Casey at the bat, it was Molly at the bat. I stood up a little straighter, even though it increased my strike zone.

            The pitcher was preparing his second pitch. He wound up; he stretched; he threw. The ball was heading wide; no, it curved, and just made the outside corner.  "Strike two," the umpire called. (He didn't have to yell it so loudly.)

            I looked over at Coach Colbrunn. and he gave me the nod to go ahead and hit.  This was exactly like "Casey at the Bat." Casey had let the first two pitches go by and he swung on the third. Like Casey, I clenched my teeth in cruel hatred, and I pounded the bat violently on the plate (hard to do if you're a dog), envisioning the glory and the liver snacks that would soon be mine.

            But then...oh the horror of it all... I remembered the rest of the poem. Casey struck out! In the last line of the poem, mighty Casey struck out.  My heart was filled with dread such as I'd never known. What if I, too, struck out? I froze.