by HoraceClarke66
(With apologies to W.H. Auden)
I sit in one of the dives
On River Avenue
Uncertain and depressed
As the clever hopes expire
On a low, dishonest decade.
Waves of anger and frustration
Circulate over the dreary
And darkened field of the Stadium,
Obsessing our drinking lives,
The unmentionable odor of collapse
Offends the September night.
Accurate statistics can
Depict the bleak offense
From Stick until now
That has driven a fanbase mad,
Find what occurred in Tampa,
What huge old George did make,
That psychopathic god.
I and the public know:
What all Yankees fans do learn
Those Steinbrenners who were neglected
Neglect their franchise in return.
To a money-hungry owner;
Looking over the books,
There is no problem to be seen.
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Each player makes his vain competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In a euphoric dream;
Out of the sports pages they stare
Boston’s many wins
And the season all gone wrong.
Faces along the bar
Stare into their overpriced beer:
The season must never end.
The Yankees must always win.
Lest we should see where we are,
Boone lost in a haunted wood
Cashman afraid of the young,
And pitchers who have never been happy or good.
For the error bred in the bone
Of our leader in the elf suit
Is he craves what he cannot have,
To both rebuild and compete
On his little elfin feet.
From the clubhouse
Onto the playing field
Our dim mediocrities come,
Repeating their daily vow:
“I will hustle on every play, I’ll swing on every pitch.”
And helpless fans awake
To watch their desultory game:
Who would release Neil Walker now?
Who can reach our deaf GM?
Who can speak for the dumb?
All we have is our voice
To undo the folded lie
That this team can still win,
From the numb-ed mind in the owner’s booth,
And the lie of Authority
Whose farm teams shrivel and lose.
There is no new dynasty a-borning
And no help coming from the boys
We pay millions to leave the D.R.
Cashman allows us no choice,
No matter how our hitting fades.
We must have more pitching or die.
This poem originally appeared in the Yankee-centric blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught.
