There’s no point in trying to become
the best umpire that ever lived.
There’s always someone who’s gonna’ call your game otherwise
no matter how well you play that day, or any other
There’s the time spent practicing with little tykes,
triple A, Grapefruit Leagues and more practice,
there’s never any respite for those who are right
only someone else to refute your best judgement.
There’s no right/wrong regarding calls, strikes/*****
it’s Olympic swimming, diving, ice skating,
subjective.
There’s no life like it, ‘cept maybe the Army
Betting of all sorts, you know not where or when
you just know it’s going on somewhere with somebody/somewise.
There’s no accounting for mans indiscretion to sport
nor the improprieties of professional sport/entertainment.
There’s no telling if you’re gonna’ call good or bad games
or if your kindness or mean streak will exude on any given day
There’s no telling if you’ll make or break at one call or another.
No telling if your taxi will drive or stop
while you’re in a cab
There’s no telling if it’s your time or not
to face the lost angel of death…or not
it will happen
in the taxi on the street
or the garden you’re tending
the house league diamond
or the major league ball park
it will happen
but there’s no telling……
when
1 April 1996, opening day at Riverfront Stadium (Cincinnati, OH), John McSherry, the National League home plate umpire collapsed and died of a massive heart attack right there in front of fifty thousand people at the game and more watching on television. A different day and time and the cardiac arrest might have happened in the taxi on the way to the game - or in his hotel room that night - or wherever. The mightiest of all messengers has an unusual sense of timing.
