by James Finn Garner
Your sluggers are all whiffin’.
Is there anybody to reproach?
Why wait for their resolve t’ stiffen?
Better fire the hitting coach.
Most of the old game’s half-mental
(On Yogi’s turf do I encroach)
Best not get too intellectu’l,
Just fire the hitting coach.
The star himself’s not to blame–
That thought we can barely approach!
The real problem is old what’s-his-name,
Our replaceable hitting coach.
Published in James Finn Garner, Management, Players, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments