by Sid Yiddish
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As noisy as one lone cricket
That is the ticket
To the next movement
For a winning team
But sadly there is never much steam for an under-.500 ball club
The very idea would make all those previous Hall of Fame heroes roll over in their graves
The same men a little past 100 years ago clung to fame
For the pure integrity of winning a game
Now wins and constantly loses
There becomes a choice which one chooses, and sadly reality shows that no matter which age is chosen for flight, a team so old as them beginning to lose the fight
Earlier and earlier each season
The relative jerking and continual line of quaking and quirking from players blaming a team for simply not working hard enough to the relative goal–I’ve heard this all before
From the local newspaper to the TV news
That if it’s not the economy or the stock market,
It’s the Boys of Summer with a worsening case of major league blues
This is the pure reason
Why I can’t stand to see grown men cry
To bear, to wince, to moan, to not understand as much as they try
That for which is called baseball my favorite sport
Is getting the shove like your favorite cousin Mort straight out the door
The old and the young simply don’t care anymore
Giving up so fast is so damned easy.
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*”I fart” does not refer to the act of flatulence, rather it’s a Danish term for speed
Posted 6/16/2010