Sitting cozily by the hot stove,
I start to think about starting pitching
which ain’t what it used to be.
(But then again, neither am I.)
Where are the giants (small “g”)
of yesteryear who feared no batter?
Here are some hallowed recent names, like:
Gooden, Guidry, Hershiser and Valenzuela,
Maddox, Glavine, Smoltz and Rogers,
and my personal favorite, Sandy Koufax.
Or go back further in time:
Cleveland, Dean, Grove and Mathewson,
Page, Roberts, Wynn and Young,
men who would go nine innings,
without blinking, not the wimps of today
who if they go six are feted like all-stars.
Now, if a pitcher gets a boo-boo on
his hand, he is immediately taken out.
Mordecai Brown pitched with three fingers,
and Cy Young pitched over 7,000 innings.
Give me pitchers who can go the distance,
forsaking namby-pamby relief efforts,
men who will say to the manager at the mound,
“Leave me in, chief; I can strike this guy out.”
THE POETRY OF THE GAME