“Well, son, I’ll tell ya since you askin’,
the Georgia Peach wasn’t, a peach, that is,
kinda more prickly than an ol’ cactus plant.
Oh, I’d seen him in his prime,
tearin’ up the league, tearin up the bases.
Man, what a thing of beauty –
to see his feet flyin’, his spikes gleamin’
in the sun when he stole second.
They say that goodness always
beats the heck outta the devil.
Don’t you go believin’ that crap.
He was a mean old mister,
old, young, don’t matter much which.
He may have been one of the greatest,
up there in almost every category,
but truth is, he weren’t right in the head
ever since his father got shot in the head
when the boy was 18, and just called up.
Have sympathy for him, Lord knows,
but take it from me, I’m tellin’ ya,
he was angry and crazy his whole life.
Don’t be worshiping him none; he ain’t
a fittin’ choice for your admiration.”
THE POETRY OF THE GAME