Old Number Seven Poem by John F. McCullagh

A doubleheader in the Bronx.
Bright sunshine floods the end of May,
Old number Seven at the plate,
Mantle on his last good day.

A pair of homers, five for five.
The legs are wrapped, he strides with pain
Mickey takes the bases slow
He has to sit the second game.

It would have been a fitting end
to wave his cap and walk away.
To end like Ruth and Williams did
and homer on his final day.

But Jimmy Foxx is still in reach
so Mickey drags himself to play.
The Cathedral in the Bronx half empty
Few come to watch him fade away.

Mclain and Lonberg are ahead
Five Thirty Six and Mick is done
Long shadows stalk the center field
that he patrolled when he was young.