The Yankees took the field and we heard the anthem played.
The air was thick that August night.
Louisiana Lighting placed his cap upon his head.
The stadium lights were burning bright.
Ron Guidry turned to face home plate
With a feeling akin to  despair
He searched in vain for the Catcher’s sign
From the man who wasn’t there.

Eight Yankees took the field that night.
The Umpire stood alone.
Collectively we felt the pain
of Thurman Munson gone.
Jerry Narron caught that game
The Yankees rallied late.
Yet all felt the vacancy
That had happened at home plate
Upon this sad anniversary
I solicit your thoughts and prayers
For the Yankees fallen Captain;
the man who wasn’t there.

Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.

A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.

Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.

Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.


There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.

There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.

My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.

Dear Prince Hal has breathed his last.
He leaves behind a storied past.
Some Hits, some flops, but mostly glory,
Like” Company” and “West side Story”
He gave us” Phantom” at his height
with its sweet music of the night.
He worked with Sondheim; He mentored Weber,
How glorious was their work together.
Let the lights dim on every Broadway Marquee
To honor this, his timeless legacy.

The names of the suspects are covered in ink,
leaving us not knowing what we should  think.
Here we have Mueller, whose words were redacted,
saying sitting POTUSes cannot be indicted.
Despite spending Millions and  two years of time
No proof of Conspiracy was he able to find.
" No Collusion!!" Trump tweets time after time.
Ignoring Obstruction which may be his crime.
Imagine the scene at Biden's inauguration
when his opponent is dragged off for incarceration.
Unless he's impeached first for this offense
and we all have to suffer under President Pence.

It was already late when we approached my friend’s front gate.
The Sun was setting in the western sky.
“Our days grow imperceptibly shorter now.” He observed.
“Yes, we’re past the Solstice.” was my reply.
I put my weight upon my cane as I ascended his front steps,
And caught the sight of two old men reflected in a window’s glass.
“Our days grow shorter” I agreed.

I’m not sure if he noticed, but
I’d omitted “imperceptibly”.

Mel Stottlemyre walked out to the mound,
where Jim Bouton nervously kicked the rubber.
“Bulldog, the manager sent me to take you out,
You’re headed for the shower.”
“One more batter and I’d have earned the win.”
Jim Bouton said with sorrow.

“You’ll have another chance real soon”
Mel told him as they were departing,
“There’s a doubleheader tomorrow at Elysian Fields,”
“and I heard we’ll both be starting!”

There is puppy love and Eros,
There’s Agape, the love of God.
Then there is that sort of Love
That always struck me as odd.
They call it unrequited Love,
The saddest Love of all.
One whom passion has inflamed;
the other ,not at all.
Much better to have breakup ***
When Lust’s crude passions die,
Than wander, lonely as a cloud
and keep it all inside.
If my true Love would pine for me
I’d be more than delighted.
More likely, I will die, alone,
forever unrequited