This is my adaptation of the famous poem "Casey at the Bat" be Ernest Thayer. It is intended for satirical purposes only. The only reason I chose Papi is because his name fit well, he was the first one I thought of, and I found the description to be relatively accurate. I know its a little untimely, but whatever. I also had to take some liberties with the Red Sox batting order, but sue me.
It looked extremely rocky for the Boston nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but one inning left to play.
So, when Dustin died at second, and Manny did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,
With hope which springs eternal within the human breast.
For they thought: "If only Papi could get a whack at that,"
They'd put even money now, with Papi at the bat.
But Drew preceded Papi, and likewise so did Lugo
And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter was a fake.
So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Papi's getting to the bat.
But Drew let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And the much-despised Lugo "tore the cover off the ball."
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occured,
There was Lugo safe at second, and Drew a-huggin' third.
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell --
It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;
For Papi, mighty Papi, was advancing to the bat.
There was easse in Papi's manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Papi's bearing and a smile on Papi's face;
And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Papi at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced in Papi's eye, a sneer curled Papi's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Papi stood a-watchingit in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped;
"That ain't my style," said Papi. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on the stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stand;
And its likely they'd have killed him had not Papi raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Papi's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult, he made the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Papi still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Papi and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Papi wouldn't let the ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Papi's lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Papi's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Boston -- mighty Papi has struck out.