Skipper and I were sitting back, enjoying a gab and chew,
when in walked a rookie, with smiles on his face, and looking shinny and new.
In his hand, all rounded and curled, was a letter from the font office - and it said,
a farmer at one time, but now he’s all mine, make him a pitcher instead.
We shook his hand then gestured, to the locker room a far,
and told him to settle in, as we spit into our jars.
He left our place and wondered back, looking for his name,
but all he found were open pens, and they all looked the same.
“Here’s one kid” I said, as I pointed to a space,
a pen that once belonged to a guy who dated a gal named Grace.
The pen was dusty and dirty, and reeked of old mildew,
the kid looked kind of sad, regretful and kind of blue,
so I tried to cheer him up by saying… “hey kid, this all belongs to you.”
So with deepness of breath, he got his stuff and tried to make it do.
But as he settled in and started stacking, his stuff upon a shelf,
the shelf gave way, his very first day, then dumped all his stuff.
“Welcome to the Minors kid”, a voice beckoned near,
he turned and looked around and saw ten guys all with sneers.
They didn’t exactly welcome him, nor did they seem to mind,
an addition to their ranks that day, a fielding team of nine.
So he suited up with a uniform that oddly didn’t fit,
and the only thing that seemed comfortable was his brown and tarnish mitt.
But he took the field all by himself, as if he was a group of one,
and he had an itchy feeling, for that day he was all but done.
He made his way to the bullpen, and quietly relaxed,
no wanting to seem to pushy, and mix in with the pack.
I walked over to him, and pointed to a mound,
and told him to do his thing, and see what we had found.
Did the scouts really pick this kid, this tall and skinny mug,
or were they simply joking us, and laughing at our club.
I sent our catcher Jimmy, who was experienced enough,
I didn’t send our best guys, like Art, bill and Duff.
But only after a couple of throws, Jimmy turns around,
the kid’s heat is unbearable, for Jimmy’s mitt to pound!
Jimmy looked at his hand, it was all red and smart,
so I motioned over to the bench, to our catcher whose name was Art.
Now Art took some pitches, then said that was enough!
So, I motioned to our best, our backstop name Duff.
Pitch after pitch the kid had shown us all in many, many ways,
with a deadly look, blinding speed, and the performance that he gave.
For this was no ordinary rookie, the scouts have sent my way,
a serious contender for the big leagues some fine day.
That season he came along, with hard work and desire,
and I sent him in, during good and bad, it really didn’t matter.
For this is the crucible of fire, the vessel of heat and strain,
if the kid couldn’t make it here, then his efforts would be in vain.
But he never flinched a muscle, he never did complain,
he just took his place upon the bump and concentrated on the game.
Season after season he endured this mighty test,
in fact of all the pitchers that I’ve had, he turned out to be my best.
We never really talked that much, but we always understood,
that someday he’d move along, because he was so good.
His numbers never faltered, as he went on and on,
and it was obvious to all, that he was a rising sun.
Just a scrubby minor league club, trying to make ends meet,
in a small no name town, with a clubhouse that badly leaked.
The coach’s office had no door, buy plenty of hissing pipes,
and a bunk and dripping facets that kept me up at night.
But all this I could endure, as long as I could coach this kid,
this rookie that made my days, and admire from where I sit.
A then one day my Skipper calls me in,
he said “pull up a chair”, there’s some news that’s in the wind.
He said the kid’s developed nicely, so their sending him up tonight,
So we’re both going to tell him, and witness his delight.
The kids called in, and given all the news,
he’s finally made it, he’s finally made the cruse.
I suggest that he make a phone call, to his folks back home and share,
his happiness, his joyful news, and not leave them in the air.
The kid turns away and starts to leave, then stops in his space,
a small smile starts to grow, then lights up his face.
He leans over our desk and extends his hand, with a sincere and steady smile,
the shakes our hands and thanks us all, for our work with him a while.
So we watch him walk, remembering when, we had got the call,
but then we laughed, and had to admit, it never happened at all.
So now we sat back, enjoying a gab and chew,
when in walked a rookie, with smiles on his face, and looking shinny and new.
In his hand, all rounded and curled, was a letter from the font office - and it said,
a farmer at one time, but now he’s all mine, make him a pitcher instead.
Coach B.
