By Millie Bovich
It all started when the pitcher threw a ball too much inside,
And the batter kinda whispered, “This guy’s style I can’t abide.”
When it happened sure a second time in inning Number Three,
Thought the batter, more suspicious, “Did he try to dump on me?”
So the manager protesting gave the ump a nasty sign
And a number of his teammates jumped right up and crossed the line.
Then the bench began to empty and the team all rose as one–
That’s precisely as it happened when the donnybrook spun on.
The other bench rose also, running towards the pitcher’s mound,
And the grays and whites all tangled and a couple hit the ground.
Caps and mitts went flying, with the pitching mound a mess,
And the lefty center fielder came right in without duress,
Then the language got specific when the knuckles hit their mark,
And the melee just intensified that Sunday at the park.
There was shoving, there was pushing, there were words we can’t repeat.
Not a fan in Tiger home field was ensconced upon his seat.
We couldn’t tell was gray or white, but someone threw a punch,
And who knows where it landed in that sweaty, brawling bunch?
Then a fielder smacked a shortstop, and the rook from second base
Joined the brouhaha depositing his fist on catcher’s face,
But the fella at the organ played and never missed a note,
His talented musicality endeav’ring to promote.
The relievers in the bullpen thought they’d never get the call,
But they stopped their practice pitches and proceeded to the brawl.
The bag at first stood empty, he wouldn’t be left out,
Then he decked a tall right fielder, that’s what he was all about.
Sure, the crowd became unruly, they had come to watch a game.
“This ain’t hockey,” from the box seats, “but I like it just the same.”
They whistled and they hollered, it was all that you could hear,
And someone in the bleachers spilled a 32-ounce beer.
“Mayhem, this is mayhem,” said the lady in the hat,
But the brawlers kept on brawling, disregarding all of that.
The people in the grandstands screamed their epithets as well,
And what broke loose that afternoon was bloody, holy hell.
Someone bumped the hawkster selling dogs and frosty drink,
And the mustard pot spilled over and the place began to stink.
The player guarding second ran, his teammates to defend,
And the television spokesman yelled, “Who knows how this will end?”
Now third base too was vacant when the player there joined in,
And you couldn’t hear the ump above the tumult and the din.
So 40,000 fans were there and some were almost numb,
To witness what the papers said was pandemonium.
And years from now some Tiger fans will swear that they were there,
When the baseball brawl erupted with which nothing can compare.
Finally, yes, finally, the umps regained control,
With common sense and pleading and a trifle of cajole.
So it ended with no inj’ries and each player took his post
With no thought of his activities about which he could boast.
The fans regained composure and each settled in the sun,
And the record books recorded that the Detroit Tigers won!
