Tillman at the Plate

The outlook was brilliant for the Lovers team that day:

They led the Crabs by one to nil, with four innings left to play.

Two outs, none on, top of the fifth, and Mitchell's solo blast

had put the Lovers up one nil. The Crabs were looking gassed.

Then the ballpark came alive with jeers and shouts and boos,

As Tillman H. strode toward the plate, and bent to fix his shoes.

The crowd reacted quickly, making fart sounds with their mouths,

and he shouted something back but all the fart sounds drowned him out.

The crowd, so kind, so easy-going, famous for their love,

showered Tillman with their garbage as he fixed his batting glove.

"You're a pest!" they yelled, as Tillman squared, and calmly stared ahead.

"HEY TILLMAN!" cried a Blittle Leaguer, "WE HOPE THAT YOU DROP DEAD!"

Parker Meng was on the mound, and tried to stare him down,

but ended with a furrowed brow, part scowl, part sneer, part frown.

Oh, how we hated Tillman, what a blot upon the game!

True blaseball fans will hiss upon the mention of his name.

Tillman leaned, and set, and waited, while the crowd let loose more boos,

Then Meng stepped off the rubber, so we could give him more abuse.

As Meng wound up, the crowd went quiet, and she let loose with a pitch

that thwacked the catcher's glove so hard it had to be restitched.

The umpire's eyes burned red and hot, a flame behind its gaze,

and the way it shrieked S T R I K E O N E left several players dazed.

Tillman stepped out of the box, and just 'cause he's a jerk,

turned, and sneered up at the crowd, and then we went berzerk.

"YOU CAN'T HIT THE BALL! GO HOME! YOU NO-GOOD SON OF A BITCH!"

we screamed at Tillman Henderson, then came the second pitch.

He fouled it off into the crowd, which promptly threw it back,

and Meng threw two more balls but both had such delicious thwack.

The crowd grew hushed a moment later, every person held their breath,

when Tillman, swinging, lifted it to shallow center-left.

Meh, in left, was on the run, and dove to make the catch,

and would've had it too but for a soft spot in the grass.

Can you believe that Tillman, that no-good worthless schmecken,

rounded first, but didn't feel like running 90 feet to second?

The crowd kept taunting Tillman, through a failed hit-and-run,

but in their hearts they knew the damage to their pride was done.

Tillman came into their ballpark, they let him get a hit,

and just 'cause he's a jerk, they knew that he'd remember it.

But Meng retired the Crabs, then Little Horne was up to bat,

but promptly hit a ground out, and broke his favorite bat.

Lopez, walking up to bat, blew kisses at the fans,

the place erupted in a flurry of excited stans.

But then, a louder noise was heard, from right behind home plate,

the sound of anger, pain, and cruelty forged in fires of rage,

when -

LOOK OUT!

THE UMP REMOVED ITS MASK!

They saw the spot upon the field where the umpire's gaze was cast,

and when they saw the ashes, everybody was aghast.

Until... "HEY! THAT WAS TILLMAN! HENDERSON IS DEAD*!"

And the crowd went wild with joy, instead of existential dread.

Everybody started dancing, laughing, having a good time,

they shot off all the fireworks they'd saved for inning nine.

They fired up the speakers and they even paused the game,

and there never was a mention after that of Tillman's name.

It's commonplace for folks to mourn a blaseball player's passing,

but when they left the stadium the blaseball fans were laughing,

and everybody joked how they would love, just for a bit,

to be the ump who set ablaze that lousy piece of shit.

And as the Crabs and Lovers partied long into the night,

we all felt that the universe had smiled on us tonight.

The sweetest blaseball fantasy that ever came to pass,

was seeing that rogue ump turn Tillman to a pile of ash.

-- Ch4zm of Hellmouth, October 2020

* = this is not necessarily a factual statement