The Wreck of the Doug Mirabelli

by JHB

The legend lives on, from Hoyt Wilhelm on down,
Of the trick pitch they all call the knuckler.
The pitch, it is said, leaves the catchers for dead,
Diving wildly with no hope for succor.

A gentleman fine, wearing number 49,
Came to Boston by way of the Pirates.
He struck batters out but he made catchers shout
‘Cept for one who had gorged carbohydrates.

Mirabelli’s the pride of the Faithful who fly
Cross the nation to see foes confounded.
As good catchers go, he was bigger than most,
With a butt and a belly well rounded.

Concluding some time with the Giants to find
They had sold him right off to the Rangers,
But Hatteburg and Tek found their stats were a wreck
And Duquette was aware of the dangers.

The voice on the phone made a tattletale drone,
And for Dougie they demanded Duchscherer.
And every man knew, as the GM did, too,
‘Twas a swap that smelled lots like manure.

But the trade it was made, and Doug wasn’t afraid
When the pitches of Wakefield came floating,
But after the game with complete lack of shame,
Dougie pigged out until he was bloating.

When the clubhouse spread came, the old cook was ashamed,
Saying, “Dougie, it’s all I can feed ya.”
At seven P.M., an old floorboard caved in.
He said, “Dougie, it’s been good to know ya.”

The Sox got Josh Bard, but the job was too hard,
So they flew Dougie from San Diego.
With state troopers he came, just in time for the game,
Catching knuckleballs, looking like Play-Doh.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the years turn the muscles to blubber?
The Faithful all say he’d have played to this day
Were his belly not soft as foam rubber.

Come 2008, Kevin Cash looked so great
Rumors spread across all Red Sox Nation.
On the thirteenth of March, Tito spoke the words harsh,
“The right thing for the organization.”

‘Cause flabby flesh hangs, despite Series rings
When beer and not ice tea’s a passion.
If you chug Anchor Steams like a bush leaguer’s dreams,
Your waistline will be out of fashion

And farther below the belt, don’t you know,
Takes the fat that won’t fit in the belly,
And the muscle tone goes, as the old-timers know,
‘Til the wreck of the Doug Mirabelli.

In a musty beerhall in Kenmore they prayed
And from Back Bay to Rome and New Delhi
The church bells did chime, all of 28 times
For the number of Doug Mirabelli.

The legend lives on, from Hoyt Wilhelm on down,
Now to Timmay and Doug’s fame accruing.
Great catches and blocks while wearing Red Sox.
‘Twas his weight that became his undoing.

Published in Boston Red Sox, Food, Pittsburgh Pirates, San Diego Padres, San Francisco Giants, Songs and Parodies, Texas Rangers | Link to this poem | No Comments

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