by James Finn Garner
Consider the case of Lastings Milledge,
Career on the wane and prospects pillaged.
So many chances, not one of them clicked.
Now playing Triple A out in the sticks.
How cruelly ironic to have that first name,
Success was so fleeting throughout his game.
Drafted and signed with ado and aplomb,
but the years and the game rolled crushingly on.
To what sort of player can you really relate:
The superstars, scrubs — or should-have-been-greats?
Published in Chicago White Sox, James Finn Garner, New York Mets, Players, Pure doggerel, Washington Nationals | Link to this poem | No Comments