His name was Gibson,
though they called him Forty-five
for his uniform number,
the pop of ball in mitt,
batters glad they survived
when they tried to hit.
He was tall and lean
and high-inside-fastball-mean.
Some statistics for you:
in ‘68, games won twenty-two,
three runs in ninety-nine innings.
just the beginning.
World Series, Game One,
Seventeen K’s,
unsurpassed to this day.
May 12, ’69,
an afternoon quite fine.
Records show quite accurate:
nine pitches, nine strikes, three outs,
an Inning Immaculate.
His Hall of Fame plaque reads:
“One of the most dominating pitchers in the game.”
He was tall and lean
and high-inside-fastball-mean.
For seventeen years,
six words batters hated to hear:
“Now pitching, Number 45, Bob Gibson.”
Facing him wasn’t fun,
nine Gold Gloves,
251 games won,
bats broken by the ton.
His pitching greatness is unshaken,
contributions like his never forsaken.
He was tall and lean
and high-inside-fastball-mean.