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The title always seemed like the most reasonable baseball advice I ever heard. Since I was a lousy ballplayer, maybe I can apply that advice to a blog.
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"Robin! Hiya...What The?" New Manager, New Verse

Posted 03-06-2012 at 08:43 AM by tebman

It's a new season in so many ways. Robin Ventura's arrival will one day be told as an epic tale, but until that happens, here's an abbreviated Song of South Side Spring.

Profound apologies in advance to H. W. Longfellow, though I'm confident that both he and his Hiawatha would have an appreciation for the rhythmic drama we've all endured.

On the shores of Mishigami,
By the shining big-bean sculpture,
Stood the city of Chicago,
City of the wind, Chicago.
South behind it stood the ballpark,
High the lights and broad the concourse;
Broad before it stood the park-lots,
Flowed the beer inside the park-lots,
Flowed the beer and tossed the cornhole.
There the stubborn GM Kenny
Sought to build the mighty White Sox;
Studied he the ’05 trophy.

Grinding teeth and pounding tables,
Nursing wishes born of letdown;
Spoke did he with Chairman Jerry
Of the days to come in baseball,
Days that spoke of loss in baseball,
Like the wind that blows the flyball,
Like the fire that burns the hot dog,
Losses blow and burn the GM.
Who was this, that lit the ballpark?
With his many-fractured outbursts?
“Hush!” spoke fast the Chairman Jerry,
Checking now for tweets from Oney.

Many things the Chairman taught him
Of the ways of winter meetings.
Gone is he who spooked the clubhouse
With his rants and profane musings,
With his children, keyboards tapping,
With his sideshow, with his ego,
With the Buehrls, the great left-hander.
Gone is he, who spooked the clubhouse,
Gone to watch flamingos dancing,
Gone to wear Miami breechcloth,
Frightening the swampy creatures,
Dancing with the wild Zambrano.

In the ballpark sat the GM,
In the ballpark, in the shadows.
Ghosts of ballplayers danced around him,
Ghosts of players who moved the turnstiles,
Sold the tickets, sold the churros,
Sold the mighty fan-base daydreams
Of a time when in the ballpark
Ballplayers played and never tweeted.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the pitch that knuckles,
Like the umpire’s strike-three punchout,
Came the thought: bring in Ventura.

Entered he, the peaceful Robin,
Entered he, of glove and grand-slam,
Blinking in the lights of press room.
Standing proud did GM Kenny,
Saying that though never coaching,
Leading teams by great example,
Talking less so, leading more so,
Showing how to throw the cutoff,
Teaching all to play the foul line,
Not to fear the mighty fastball,
Only hit the mighty line drive.
Ready now did Robin answer.

With a smile he spoke his wisdom,
Batting coach beside him smiling,
Bench coach nodding in agreement.
New at this, is peaceful Robin,
Wishing most for patient fan-base,
Sounding hope for big man Adam,
He of strikeouts unrelenting.
Speaking well of handsome Beckham;
Hoping Rios has his head on;
With the fan-base smiling, smiling,
Singing praises to their Robin,
Hero to the South Side brethren.

Thus begins the springtime dreaming,
Dreams of wild cards and of playoffs;
Dreams of great beasts falling, falling,
Tigers, Yankees, even Twinkies,
Blown away like forest grasses,
Blown away by mighty White Sox,
Blown into the sweet October,
As Ventura leads Chicago,
City of the wind, Chicago.
As the beer flows in the park-lots,
Fan-base dreams of South Side glory,
Fan-base dreams of yet more trophies.
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