Cayce at the Bat

"The greatest mystic America had ever known . . . Edgar Cayce seemed
gifted with a Universal Mind, which seemingly drew on a subconscious
register of everything that had ever happened or was going to
happen." — Jess Stearn in his book
Edgar Cayce: The Sleeping Prophet

THE OUTCOME SEEMED PREDICTABLE for Mudville's nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but one out left to play.
And in this game where fickle fate can make your losses wins,
They were about as lucky as the Cleveland Indians.

But suddenly the tide did turn when Jillson walked in four,
And Dixon hit one in the gap and how the crowd did roar,
For they knew that the next man up was not your average guy;
He was, in fact their favorite son, and here, I'll tell you why.

The Almanac predicted rain, but he knew there'd be sun;
He'd known when the United States would enter World War One,
And somehow Mudville's fortunes shone whene'er he doffed his hat,
That's why the crowd rejoiced when Edgar Cayce came to bat.

The great prognosticator threw a smile up to the seats,
There was pride in Cayce's posture, there was mud in Cayce's cleats.
The catcher yelled, "No batter!" with a dark look in his eye,
"You will comeback as a wombat," was ol' Cayce's gruff reply.

"Okay, you guys, play ball!" the ump demanded 'tween his chaw.
And thus began the strangest moment baseball ever saw.
For though the crowd went crazy, yea, the multitude did shout,
Ahh, thus said Mighty Cayce: "I predict I will strike out."

"What, hey!" bespoke the manager of Mudville's proud regime.
The crowd was all abuzz—this had to be some Cayce scheme.
Indeed, it seemed to be when Cayce sneered and kicked the ground
And yelled, "I smelled a fastball" to the hurler on the mound.

The leather sphere came hurtling in a perfect heated throw,
But Cayce let it pass as if to say, "I told you so."
It was the kind of pitch even a blind man wouldn't shun;
What could the helpless field judge say to this, except: "Strike one!"

Stunned silence filled the chasm from the bleachers to the gate,
But slowly cheers rose from fans whose hope would not abate.
"Let's see your curve," yelled Cayce, and the spheroid soon was freed.
The seer watched it nick the zone; "Strike two!" the ump decreed.

A cry of "Kill the umpire!" rose up from the outraged herd,
And the crowd may well have killed him if their hero gave the word.
But Cayce only raised his hand and shouted from the box:
"When 1929 gets here, make sure to sell your stocks."

Then Cayce deeply fell into his pre-prediction trance—
"This game you love will one day change," declared he from his stance.
"Years hence the worst intentions will leave baseball quite undone;
And revenue for all will mean much more than having fun."

The faithful wouldn't listen, they were at a baseball game.
To watch their heroes triumph was the reason that they came.
And as a rising gust of cheers resounded through the joint,
Ol' Cayce didn't need his ESP to get the point.

The sturdy batsman grips the plank, his purpose now renewed,
The cries of the adoring patrons aid him in his feud.
And now the pitcher winds the ball, and now he lets it go:
And how the wind rejoices at the force of Cayce's blow.

Oh, somewhere boys with stick bats dream of going all the way.
And kids fresh from the sandlot touch 'em all in Triple-A.
Somewhere a beaming hero's hittin' fast ones outta sight.
But there's no joy in Mudville; Edgar Cayce got it right.

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