Carl Stevens' Journal: Hamlet's Soliloquy On The Mound At Fenway

To pitch or not to pitch, that is the question

whether tis nobler on the mound to suffer

the slings and arrows of outrageous sluggers

or to take arms against a sea of hitters,

and by opposing hit them? high and tight, to hit

no more/ and by plunking them, to say we end

the heartache, and the thousand wall-ball doubles

that Fenway's heir to? 'tis a consummation

devoutly to be wished. To let them taste dirt,

put them to sleep, perchance to dream. But aye, there's the rub,

for in that restless sleep, what strength may come,

when they shuffle off the box's dirt,

and rise. That gives me pause. There's the respect

that gives hitters such a long life;

for who would bear the whips and scorns of homers,

the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's mighty swat,

the pang of despised singles, a stolen base,

the face of insolence, and the spikes

that patient merit of unworthy umpires,

when I might silence the heavy bats

with a bare inside fastball? Who would these sluggers bear,

to grunt and sweat with my weary curveball,

but that the dread of something after the pitch,

the undiscovered wrath, from whose Louisville slugger

no traveler returns, puzzles the will,

and makes me rather throw the pitches I have

than opt to put one under an ugly big man's chin.

Thus weakness does make cowards of us all,

and thus the native hue of resolution

is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of self-preservation,

and enterprises of great pitches and movement,

with this regard their currents turn awry,

and lose the name of action,

and so by the top of the sixth, I walk into the dark,

another losing pitcher on the stage of Fenway Park.

Listen to Carl's poem

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