The final game of the series gave us the sweep of the Texas Rangers. A sweep is a beautiful thing, whether it’s in April or September. In honor of the man who clinched the sweep, just as he’s clinched so much in his years with us, I decided to write a poem.
I will keep this blog entry short and sweet. Sometimes, the most powerful messages can be portrayed with the fewest of words. My passion for the Yankees inspires me to do many things, including writing poetry.
Who says baseball and poetry can’t mix? I’m here to prove that it can.
An Ode To A Favorite Yankee
What can I say that has never been said,
About a man whose pitching fills my head
With memories of glory, victory and might,
And dreams of our championships as I sleep at night?
In a sea of stars, he is sometimes unsung
As a hero who gave us five flags we’ve hung.
He gave us the wins that clinched our rings,
It should be his praises that everyone sings.
From the day he debuted we became aware
Of his mighty left arm, and his powerful stare.
He’s stepped up his game when it mattered the most,
Yet he’s never been known as the one to boast.
Words fail to portray what he’s done for our team.
Numbers deny him a place with baseball’s supreme.
Without him, our Yankees would not have been the same.
Because of him, the titles were ours to claim.
In the brightest of lights he never fails to amaze,
Yet he is always too humble to accept the praise.
He carries himself with dignity and pride.
He’s a man I’m proud to have on our side.
He’s become synonymous with playoff wins,
We know the outcome of his game before it begins.
His postseason record has never been matched.
His name to our championships is always attached.
He’s given us a career full of pitching gems,
And from his clutch pitching, our glory stems.
From his stare, to his pickoffs, to his victorious starts,
This man will always and forever be in our hearts.
If this is indeed the last year he’ll play,
Then we should cherish each and every day
That sees him donning our mighty pinstripes,
For history will show he’s of the rarest types.
By now you should know my muse for this ode,
If you don’t, fret not. Don’t try to decode.
I’ll give you his name, and don’t you forget it,
I speak of our wonderful Andrew E. Pettitte.