University of Virginia Library

Our Hero

Our hero is dead, when will we
ever have another. A trinity of
power, speed, and beauty — an era's
Mars, Mercury, and Apollo.

The lucky seven on a field of
majestic pinstripe. The proud
hobble out to the distant center
pasture. The muscles bulging; the
intimation of mastery over the game.

The great warrior in the big
arena. Challenging its spacious
grounds to defeat his blinding
speed, challenging the enemy to
overwhelm his patrol. The assault
begins, he pumps furiously to meet
it — the graceful leap, he overtakes
it.

Now he assaults — a colossal
arch to the top of the world. Only
mortality and the roof contains the
mounting thrust. From right or left
— the towering blow too quick, too
high, too far to counter. Or eschew
the bludgeon and don the rapier in
surprise, he scores again — deft and
fleet. If the enemy recoil and a base
freely yielded, the opportunity is
seized and further advance cannot
be halted.

The victory continuous, the
acclaim widening. The huzzahs
from crowds, the homage paid by
fellows. Humanity on its feet to
shower its favor. The crippled
veteran, repelling extinction, bearing
the standard for us all!

But then the pinstripe fades, the
enemy gains, the magic is withdrawn
by the Greater Power. The
Blond Bomber — The Commerce
Comet — The Switcher — The Mick
is entombed with t he Babe, the
Iron Horse, The Yankee Clipper.

We're alone in the cavernous
arena, A cold wind whips round the
monuments, numbing the spirit, as
we wait for another.