Throneberry!

The very name evokes

a royal jewel

and that you certainly were

to a buck-toothed, knobby-kneed

nine-year-old in that magical

summer of ’62.

You had slumps, you had stumbles,

but certainly no more than I did

in Little League, and I and

your many many little fans

lived and died with you

each time you came to the plate.

Sure, you struck out a lot,

but not nearly as much as me and

your other loyal kid fans.

And sixteen homers!

I could only dream of hitting one!

Sixteen thrills and sixteen chances to yelp

out loud as you rounded the bases,

ecstatic at any little exploit!

And how could you field at first base

the throws that hopped and skipped

or rocketed over your head?

These Mets were hapless. But lovable.

And none more so than you.

Years later, you had the humility and grace

to laugh at your foibles in a T.V. ad,

as a lesser man would not have been capable.

And that famous triple which

fed your myth? Who cares if you didn’t

touch second, or even first?

You hit a triple!

Who among us has not

made a far worse mistake?

Marv, you truly were marvelous

and a royal jewel, Mr. Throneberry.