by James Finn Garner
Tell me, has it come to this–
To be outhit by Coco Crisp?
To win outright the AL East,
Then be swept out like autumn leaves?
To watch my teammates flailing madly
And our hurlers piching badly?
Then step out for a curtain call
And have all Fenway watch me bawl?
I know I’ve won three rings, but still–
I’m not quite set to give up the thrill.
Published in Ballparks, Boston Red Sox, Cleveland Indians, James Finn Garner, Players, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments