With the likely departure of Hatteberg from the A's playing ranks, I thought an elegy was in order.

(I had hoped to have FOUL completed in time to post last Friday on the 50th anniversary of Ginsberg's notorious public reading, but that thing is just too damned epic.)

From "The Song of Hatteberga" by Henry Batsworth Longballo, I present "Hatteberga's Departure." And now, just for the sheer hell of it, a poll!

The Song of Hatteberga

Hatteberga's Departure

By the shore of Ditche Drainage,
By the shining Am-Trak-Station,
At the doorway of his stadium,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hatteberga stood and waited.
All the team was full of fresh ass,
All the rooks were bright and joyous,
And before him, 'cross the BART bridge,
Westward toward the McAfee turnstiles
Passed in golden swarms the A's-fans;
Past the Beane, the Moneyballer,
Trading, drafting in the sunshine.
High above him stood Mt. Davis,
Level spread the field before him;
From its bosom leaped the Huston,
Licking, pitching in the sunshine;
On its margin the great bullpen
Stood and warmed up on the side mounds,
Every rightie had his shadow,
Motions left and right on twin mounds.
From the brow of Hatteberga
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
As the sense from off Joe Morgan.
With a smile of joy at Band Camp,
With a look of pure exhaustion,
As of one who in a vision
Sees at-bats to be, but are not,
Stood and waited Hatteberga.
Gripping the bat his hands were lifted,
Both his feet spread out in the box,
And from high above the bleachers
Fell the sunshine on his features,
Freckled with light his aged cheekbones,
As he swung and missed in Oak-land
Or grounded into DPs.
O'er the ballfield floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the fists of throwing,
Loomed and lifted from the pitcher,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Swingandmiss the slider?
Or the Foulitoff, the cutter?
Or the Dancer, the knuckleball?
Or the Charlie, 12-to-6 curve,
With the batter gaping, buckling,
From its gaudy parabolic?
It was neither curve nor slider,
Neither knuckleball nor cutter,
O'er the ballfield floating, flying,
From the slinging fist of throwing,
But a fastball down the middle,
Rising, speeding to the batter,
Gripping, swinging in the sunshine;
And within it spun a story
From the distant land of Oakland,
From the farthest realms of morning
Came the Black-Haired chief, the Prophet,
He the Priest of Numbers, the Pale-face,
With his scouts and his assistants.
And the noble Hatteberga,
With his hands aloft, extended,
Held aloft in sign of welcome,
Waited, full of exultation,
Till his birchwood bat to paddle
Swatted on the spinning baseball,
Spanked it toward the right-field gap,
Till the Black-Haired chief, the Pale-face,
Threw his chair across his office,
Traded on a narrow margin.
Then the joyous Hatteberga
Cried aloud and spake in this wise
`Beautiful are the A's, O strangers,
When you come so far to see us!
All our men in high socks await you,
All our gates stand open for you;
You shall enter our new stadium,
For the Wolff's right hand has said so.
`Never bloomed the rooks so daily,
Never shone the asses so brightly,
As to-day they shine and blossom
When you come so far to see us!
Never was our game so tranquil,
Nor so free from Longs and Sand Frogs;
For my GM Beane in trading
Has removed both Long and Sand Frog.
`Never before had our tobacco
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor,
Never the basepaths of our ballfield
Were so beautiful to look on,
As they seem to us this gameday,
When you come so far to see us!'
And the Black-Haired chief made answer,
Stammered in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar:
`Peace be with you, Hatteberga,
Peace be with you and your batting style,
Peace of player, and peace of patience,
Peace of walks, and joy of extra-base hits!'
Then the generous Hatteberga
Led the strangers to his stadium,
Seated them on chairs of plastic,
Seated them on chairs unbreakable,
And the careful old attendants
Brought them beer in cups of novelty,
Peanuts brought, and foam-form'd fingers,
And the crackerjacks, the red-ropes,
Filled and sated all their longings.
All those online of the fandom,
All the warriors of A's Nation,
All the Apricots, the McFoods,
The GreenNGoldGirls, the Batgirls,
And the Brianin317s, the Nicos,
Came to bid the strangers welcome;
'It is well,' they said, `O brothers,'
That you come so far to see A's!'
In a circle round the ballfield,
With their caps they sat in silence,
Waiting to behold the strangers,
Waiting to receive their message;
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
From the stadium came to greet them,
Stammering in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar;
`It is well,' they said, `O Billy,
That you do so much to cheer us!'
Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
Told his message to the people,
Told the purport of his mission,
Told them of the Vee Oh Are Pee,
And of Oh Pee Ess, and ISO,
How in distant lands and ages
He had played baseball as they did;
How he fasted, prayed, and labored;
How the Sox, the team accursed,
Mocked him, scouted him, tried to acquire him;
How he spurned all that they'd gave him,
Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into ownership,
And the fans made answer, saying:
`We have listened to your message,
We have heard your words of wisdom,
We will think on what you tell us.
It is well for us, O brothers,
That you do so much to cheer us!'
Then they rose up and departed
Each one homeward to his stadium,
To the young men and the women
Told the story of the strangers
Whom the Master Beane had sent them
From the shining land of Oakland.
Heavy with the heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of Summer;
With a drowsy sound the A's fans
Whispered round the sultry stadium,
As if sound asleep the batter
Closed his eyes and swung his birch bat;
From the bleachers shrill and ceaseless
Sang the Duke of Left Field, the Drummer;
And the fans of Hatteberga,
Weary with the heat of Summer,
Slumbered in the sultry stadium.
Slowly o'er the simmering ballfield
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears across Mount Davis,
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret alcove,
Searched each ticket, single, foul ball;
Still the fans of Hatteberga
Slumbered in the silent stadium.
From his place rose Hatteberga,
Bade farewell to old Washington,
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Did not wake the fans, that slumbered:
`I am going, O Washington,'
On a long and distant journey,
To the bases of the Diamond,
To the regions of my home-plate,
Of the Northwest-Wind, WashStateU.
But these fans I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never Yanks come near them,
See that never Sox molest them,
Never Rangers nor the Angels,
Never want of bats or leather,
In the lodge of Hatteberga!'
Forth into the ballgame went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the rookies,
Spake persuading, spake in this wise:
`I am going, O my teammates,
On a long and distant journey;
Many games and many innings
Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.
But my fans I leave behind me;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,
For the Master Beane has sent them
From the land of arms and scoring!'
At the plate stood Hatteberga,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear calciferous basepath
Launched his birchwood bat for swinging,
From the pebbles of the infield
Swung it forth across the homeplate;
Whispered to it, `Homeward! Homeward!'
And with speed it darted forward.
And the big homerun ascending
Set the fans on fire with madness,
Cleared the basepaths, like a groundcrew,
Left upon the level basepaths
One lone track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Homeward, homeward Hatteberga
Sailed into the jumping A's scrum,
Sailed into the marine layer,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
And the people from the bleachers
Watched him swinging, hitting, striking.
Till his birchwood bat split, drifted
Out into the sea beyonder,
Till it sank into the vapors
Like his bat speed, slowly, slowly
Sinking with the A's West standing.
And they said `Farewell forever'
Said `Farewell, O Hatteberga!'
And the players, sad and lonely,
Moved through all their depths of sadness,
Sighed, `Farewell, O Hatteberga!'
And the waves up in the third deck
Rising, rippling on Mount Davis,
Sobbed, `Farewell, O Hatteberga!'
And the Sharon, and Je-nuh-fah,
From their haunts among AN-lands,
Screamed, `Farewell, O Hatteberga!'
Thus departed Hatteberga,
Hatteberga the Beloved,
In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of his home-state,
Of the Northwest-Wind, WashStateU,
To the dugouts of the Coaches,
To the kingdom of Asslantis,
To the land of the Frontoffice!