The Voice of God

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.

 


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