I wrote that poem shortly after a game where our third base coach was stung several times by some white faced hornets.
This stadium that we were at was just south of Albany. It was early in the evening and the lights were just coming on with the humming of the power boxes tuning up. After our second batter grounded out, the fans near the third base light pole started clearing out, making a hasty beat for the upper decks and the exit ramps. From the distance of our dugout we couldn’t see why.
It seems that a nest of white faced hornets made their home right next to, if not on, the transformer box- or whatever that box was called, and were disturbed by the vibrations when the lights came on.
Just our luck, our third base coach had terrific sense of humor and he was great baseball people. He was also a little on the portly side, with a sense of balance that just didn’t exist. So, when he started waving around like a Dutch windmill in a gale, most of us thought that … " there’s goes Earl, having a grand time all by his lonesome."
Fact was those hornets took Earl to task. Did nothing to bother the third base ump … just Earl.
Every time I see a nest of bees or hornets, I can help but think to myself…“it’s and run son, hit and run.”