The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Los Angeles of Anaheim nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Hunter died at first, and Wells did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Kendrys could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Kendrys at the bat.
But Callaspo preceded Kendrys, as did also Jeff Mathis,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a miss;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Kendrys’ getting to the bat.
But Alberto let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Mathis, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jeff safe at second and Callaspo a-hugging third.
Then from 40,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through Orange County, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Kendrys, mighty Kendrys, was advancing to the bat.
But there was no ease in Kendrys’ manner as he stepped into his place;
Nor was their pride in Kendrys’ bearing nor a smile on Kendrys’ face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
Every stranger in the crowd was in doubt, “why does Kendrys have a bat?”
Eighty thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands on the ankle that he had hurt;
Forty thousand tongues were confounded as to the dugout he did revert.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Helplessness gleamed in Kendrys’ eye, a frown curled Kendrys’ lip.
And now a sadness hung in the Angels Stadium air,
And Kendrys stood a-watching in obvious frustration there.
Far from the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“I wish that were me in the batter’s box” Kendrys said.
The doctors said that he would be fine in one year’s time,
The Angels were eager to get back their slugger, in his prime.
But, alas, his ankle is still plagued by pain,
Leaving the Angel offense to serve as the fans’ biggest bane.
Instead of stepping up to the plate to be the big hero
He continues to give the Halos a big fat zero.
A new doctor will now attempt to figure out what is still wrong,
Meanwhile the rest of us are left wonder why his recovery is taking so long.
When will the field shall Kendrys it grace?
Will it be in time to help keep the Angels in first place?
Without him, the lineup falters on a daily basis.
With him, he could end the bats’ run-scoring drought and create an offensive oasis.
The team remains careful so that Kendrys’ future they do not crush,
Never his recovery will they even dare to rush.
But everyone’s patience, including his own, is running out.
And now the specter of a second surgery grows strong and stout.
As much as they want him, the Angels can’t wait forever.
At some point they must assume his return date is never.
It is terrible to think that a franchise cornerstone could already be for this season gone,
But a championship awaits, so it could be time to move on.
Kendrys, he is not, but they’ve got something in the kid named Trumbo,
That is, assuming you don’t buy into OBP and that other sabermetric mumbo jumbo.
If not the boy, then maybe a trade for another big bat is in order;
It might be the only way to keep the Halos from dropping below the playoff team border.
That isn’t to say Kendrys is being written off for the rest of his career,
It is more admitting that his return to full capacity isn’t even remotely near.
Those forty thousand fans and millions beyond all wish him the best,
But the time is now to lay claim to the AL West.
The sneer is gone from Kendrys’ lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
He stares in silence wondering where his career will go,
A question that has lingered since his leg was shattered, by the force of home plate’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Anaheim – mighty Kendrys, and his busted ankle, are still out.