by Stuart Shea
A voice, clear-channel, fills the Midwestern night
As a teenager listens in bed.
Pete, Doggie, Griffey, Little Joe,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The young man, driving back from work,
World Series dreams in his head.
Soto, Rijo, Sabo, Larkin,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The Reds collapsed, immortals gone,
Votto and Gray in their stead.
Nearly 50 years on, Marty is gone. . .
This one belonged to the Reds.
