The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
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Adapted from "The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field" by Richard Hugo

The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back?

The way the mind moves back
The way the mind moves back

One whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union Station, ’46, sweating through last night.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

Score, 5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn’t it wrong to be or not be...?
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
Isn't it wrong to be spastic?

The afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked?
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

I’m laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by a savage
father and I’m ashamed to look.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
Isn't it wrong to be spastic?

Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?
Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?
Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?

The score is always close, the rally always short.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind, the way the mind moves back?
I’ve left more wreckage than a quake.

Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?
Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?
Is it wrong, the way the mind, the mind moves back?

The score is always close, the rally always short.
I’ve left more wreckage than a quake.