Marvelous Marv
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.