Category: San Diego Padres

by Ron Halvorson

Two hours before the baseball game,
Dock Ellis ate acid.

In his hotel party room,
Blacklight hallucinations.

Jimi Hendrix on the Hi-Fi,
“Electric Lady riffs.”

Whoops! Sports page don’t lie—
“Dock Ellis Pitching Tonight!”

What you gonna do, Dock? She asked.
Dock just smiled, took another hit.

The partying Pirate strolled to the mound.
“higher than a Georgia Pine.” (his words)

The hapless Padres were no match.
Dock’s lively fastball whistled.

90 miles per hour,
Rolling with flaming comet tails.

Sent with fire and brimstone,
Strikes exploding into his catcher’s mitt.

“Steee-rike”, called the Grim Reaper,
Ringing up the stunned batters.

Next came Dock’s curveball,
Floating like a Frisbee.

Ball spinning through a rainbow,
Surrealistic, sublime.

Baseball in slow motion now,
Frozen in its altered state.

Dock pounds the zone,
Sasquatch bellers, “Outta there!”

A gorilla strides to the plate,
Dock whiffs the phantom.

Dock pitching in psychedelia,
Spinning colors to the plate.

Now the strangest apparition:
Nixon behind the plate.

Jefferson Airplane in Dock’s head,
Nixon screams, “Strike three!”

“One pill makes you larger,”
“One pill makes you small.”
Bewildered Padres swung wildly,
Hitting that pill “not at all.”

Purple Haze, Sandoz,
Orange sunshine, Windowpane.

Dock levitates still higher,
High above the stadium.

Mind and body now separated,
Into the cosmic realm.

Dock wills the pitcher onward,
Below, the glassy hyaline.

He’s pitching effortlessly,
So far away from the blue planet.

“It’s all so beautiful,”
And still no hits for the Padres.

Dock’s throwing daggers, thunderbolts—
Like the enraged God.

He’s ever so wild,
Trippin’ so hard.

Where’s the plate?
Dock sees only a river of tie-dye color.
Nine free baserunners,
Eight walks, one hit batsman (who looked like Frankenstein).

Twice Dock loaded the bases,
Sorcerers on first, second, third.

Not even Don Juan would score,
Dock’s electric Kool-Aid too strong.

Padre hitters were getting scared,
That crazy look in Dock’s eyes.

Pitches from the third dimension,
Dock’s tell-tale dilated pupils.

Ninth inning coming,
Still no runs, no hits.

Dock descended from the celestial sphere,
Holding a baseball light, tiny.

Dock fired that last pitch,
A meteorite at light speed.

Through a cloudy vapor trail,
Last man out!

LSD no-hitter!
Dock gazed into the Infinite.

Jewels of the Heavens sparkled,
The Luna moon smiled.

“I pitched a fucking no-hitter!”
The Gods of baseball applauded.

Thus in 1970,
Another folk hero was born.

“What did you see on that last play?”
The confused sportswriters wanted to know.

Dock just smiled like a Cheshire cat,
“Man, you wouldn’t believe what I saw!”

The legend says Dock met Timothy Leary,
An autograph and baseball card for the acid guru.

Leary’s proclamation,
To day-trippers everywhere:
Behold Dock Ellis:
First pitcher to “turn on, tune in, and drop out!”