Category: Heavy Hitters

by James Finn Garner

 As I sat in Section 660
Above the field where Gehrig trod,
I cursed the Yankees’ inept play
And muttered grudging praise to A-Rod.

Then a booming voice erupted,
Rattling beams and shaking sod.
Had sanity up and left me?
Or did I just hear the voice of God?

All eyes sought out the owner’s box
Where George S. kept his shrimp-stuffed bod.
What revelation would be uttered that
Had this crowd’s undies in a wad?

There stood Rocket Roger to declaim
(Feel free whenever to applaud)
That he’d weighed golf versus sleeping late,
And deigned to give the Yanks the nod.

“Hooray!” bellowed the drunken crowd,
Mouths agape like fresh-caught cod.
Yet I sat there with no response,
Unmoved, unsure, ungaped, unawed.

The feeling grew within me
With more than one fantod,
That this mercenary egomaniac
Wouldn’t rescue this year’s squad.

He’d win a game or three and show
His skills were not a fraud,
Then retire again, then change his mind,
A greedy, charmless, pumped-up clod.

Though many things, George S. is not
A cowardly tightwad,
But bills come due. Next year our costs
Will feel quite like a doctor’s prod.