by Sid Yiddish
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On the day that I was ejected from the old ballpark
Not a man spoke to me, as I was pitching a perfect game,
Old superstition singing its refrain.
All those curveballs, all those knuckleballs straight over home plate,
I was feeling so great and then it happened, top of the seventh,
I let one ball pass thru and it was smashed straight over the left fielder’s head.
Those balls were smacked left and center and right.
I knew I was dead in the water,
Just primed for the manager’s slaughter.
And then it happened, I beaned a batter in the head.
That was the end, as I was sent straight to the showers.
Changed into my street clothes and told to go home for the week.
I picked up my old battered gloves and my brand new mitts.
I knew what was coming next, the newspaper text of how it all fell apart.
I looked so promising, the manager once said to me,
But I knew the difference between promise and reality,
For in reality,
No one pitches perfect games anymore.
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For more on Sid Yiddish’s poetry, music and performances, check out his My Space page.
Posted 4/27/09