Casey at the Frat

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The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Sigma Chis that day:
The softball game stood four to two, with an inning left to play.
And when McCoy was too chill for first, and Silo tripped and fell,
The intramural championship seemed farther away than hell.

A straggling few of the brotherly crowd had left to kill a case,
The rest of the ‘machi faithful felt the oncoming disgrace.
They thought, if only Casey, our high school star could hit,
We’d put up money, even now, that we’d beat these bottom-tier shits.

But Floyd preceded Casey, and likewise so did Mitch,
And the former was a soccer kid and the latter was a bitch.
So upon that fluorescent field of dreams grim hopelessness did sit,
For there was a snowball’s chance in hell that Casey would get to hit.

But Floyd made contact somehow, and his speed got him to first,
And Mitch, the softy, crushed it, despite being the worst.
And when the clay had settled, and the roaring crowd took heed,
Runners on two bases set them just a homer from the lead.

From the crowd of twenty brothers, there rose a raucous scream;
It echoed through the rec-center and carried past the deans;
It bounced across the plaza, where the nerdy geeds would wait,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the plate.

There was poise in Casey’s manner as he sauntered to the box;
There was a fire in Casey’s eyes as he pointed to call his shot.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly waved his hat,
Each man in the tiny crowd knew Casey was at the bat.

With forty eyes upon him, he packed his favorite dip,
And forty hands applauded when he placed that massive lip.
Then while the munchkin pitcher clenched the ball in hand so tight,
Casey let loose a tiny burp that smelt of Natty Light.

And now the sphere of leather floated gently through the air,
And Casey stood impatiently with a cocky swagger there.
And with no interruption, the ball to the catcher spun,
“That’s all you got?” said Casey; the umpire said “Strike One.”

From the benches, black with fury, alcoholic rage arose,
And from the stands drinks and dip cups flew past the umpire’s nose.
“Kill him! Kill that GDI!” yelled a less than sober Thor.
And he probably would have done it too, if he could see straight anymore.

With a smile of confidence, Casey’s aura quelled the strain,
He calmed the angry onlookers, and raised his bat again.
He nodded to the deformed pitcher, once more the softball flew;
But Casey was too good for that, as the umpire yelled “Stike Two.”

“Bullshit!” cried the furied fans, and the echo answered back,
But with one look at Casey they knew the next ball would be whacked,
And despite the slight hiccupping, and the stumble in his gait,
Every single person knew this ball would not pass the plate.

The smile is gone from Casey’s lip, his eyes are focused true;
He pounds his bat upon the ground and resists the urge to spew.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and through the sky it riffs,
And through the field the force is felt from the strength of Casey’s whiff.

Oh, somewhere on this fabled campus, a party is raging hard;
Beers are being shotgunned, with sorostitutes in the yard.
There is no joy at Sigma Chi, Casey’s hangover to blame,
He puked on the catcher, struck out, and then they lost the game.

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Nice Move

StuffFratPeopleLike

StuffFratPeopleLike (@StuffFratsLike) is a writer for Total Frat Move, and due to his crippling OCD and functional alcoholism he can only understand and write text when presented in a numbered list format. So you're all jerks for calling him out on it. He is a self described Huguenot, and commands a secret sexual fetish for angry internet comments. All shameless praise can be directed to: joe@grandex.co

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