ODE to the UMPIRE
An umpire’s life is not that fun,
Spending hours in the dry hot sun,
Making calls that half dislike,
Telling rowdy managers to take a hike.
They spend their weekends or nights
Calling balls and strikes and breaking up fights,
They calls players "out" and the crowd goes wild,
The the manager tells them they're nobody’s child.
They makes calls on plays that are lightning quick,
The player’s upset; now there's a bone to pick.
"What kind of life is this?" the umpire thinks,
Nose to nose, this whole deal stinks.
The team at bat is a run behind,
Bottom of the ninth, ump's in a bind.
Two outs, three on, three balls strike two,
The catcher calls time to tie their shoe.
The umpire hopes the batter swings,
So it's not their decision what team wins.
The pitcher looks in to get the sign,
The umpire tries to clear their mind.
The pitch comes in and time seems to freeze,
It’s headed for the corner right at the knees.
The batter just looks as the ball goes by,
"Strike three, you’re out!" was the umpire’s cry.
The game was lost by the home team then,
The umpire tries to remember when
they made the choice of this career, then
We ran like the wind to escape the mob,
We knew we should find a different job,
You can’t please them all, we knew that well,
But when the home teams loses, it’s just pure hell.
Apologies to Clifton Eastham
Spending hours in the dry hot sun,
Making calls that half dislike,
Telling rowdy managers to take a hike.
They spend their weekends or nights
Calling balls and strikes and breaking up fights,
They calls players "out" and the crowd goes wild,
The the manager tells them they're nobody’s child.
They makes calls on plays that are lightning quick,
The player’s upset; now there's a bone to pick.
"What kind of life is this?" the umpire thinks,
Nose to nose, this whole deal stinks.
The team at bat is a run behind,
Bottom of the ninth, ump's in a bind.
Two outs, three on, three balls strike two,
The catcher calls time to tie their shoe.
The umpire hopes the batter swings,
So it's not their decision what team wins.
The pitcher looks in to get the sign,
The umpire tries to clear their mind.
The pitch comes in and time seems to freeze,
It’s headed for the corner right at the knees.
The batter just looks as the ball goes by,
"Strike three, you’re out!" was the umpire’s cry.
The game was lost by the home team then,
The umpire tries to remember when
they made the choice of this career, then
We ran like the wind to escape the mob,
We knew we should find a different job,
You can’t please them all, we knew that well,
But when the home teams loses, it’s just pure hell.
Apologies to Clifton Eastham