An Ode to LaRussa

Tony LaRussa’s butchering of the recent 20 inning game against the Mets led me to dust off a classic in homage to a textbook case of over managing. Of course, this version pales in comparison to another the version Dennis Miller did, before he went crazy of course, on Darryl Strawberry.



The outlook wasn't brilliant for the St Louis nine that day*:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Lopez died at first, and Scrappy McShumaker did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the reddened necks at the game.

* Is there ever a day in which the outlook is brilliant in St. Louis? St. Louis is like Baltimore with mosquitoes, humidity and Yosemite Sam mud flaps.


A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
started up the stairs but stopped when their high cholesterol caused that shooting pain which springs eternal in the typical overweight St. Louis breast;
They thought, if only Albert could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Albert at the bat.


But thanks to 6 double switches by LaRussa*, Ryan preceded Casey, as did also Freese,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was busy getting drunk in the afternoon breeze;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Albert’s getting to the bat.


* I’m beginning to think Dave Duncan has gone from underrated to overrated and now back to underrated. St. Louis’ recent success can be attributed to two things; Pujols and washed up pitchers revitalizing their careers. Carpenter, Suppan, Weaver, Wellemeyer, Pinero, Loshe were all castaways that because solid or spectacular under Duncan. LaRussa’s main accomplishment with St. Louis appears to have been handed the greatest hitter since Ted Williams, turning the other way when finding syringes in the trash, extending the length of each game by about 20 minutes and successfully converting Rick Ainkel from a #1 starter into a 4th outfielder . Well played Tony.


But Ryan let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Freese, the much despised drunk driver, let one loose a shot similar to the one Holliday misplayed off his balls;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Freese was safe at second and Ryan a-hugging third.


Then from 25,000 Budweiser lubricated throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the Missouri valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the arch and echoed off their fat,
For Albert, mighty Albert, was advancing to the bat.


There was ease in Albert's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Albert's bearing and a smile on LaRussa's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Albert at the bat.


Fifty thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
The same tongues that applauded when McGwire mysteriously added 50 pounds of muscular girth.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Albert's eye, a sneer curled Albert's lip.


And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Albert stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
Because first base was open and LaRussa had used his entire bench, the fans failed to see the pitcher spot due up next. “Ball one," the umpire said.


From the stands, the self appointed greatest fans in the world let loose a muffled roar,
Because while they like to claim to appreciate good baseball, they really just want to Big Mac or Albert swat balls onto the Mississippi shore.
"Pitch to him you puss!" shouted one of the good ole’ boys in the stands;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Albert raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Albert's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tension; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But it was a foot outside, and the umpire said, "Ball two."


"You Suck!" cried the 12 year old and his mulleted father wearing a shirt that said Zambrano Mows my lawn;
But one scornful look from Albert and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that next week LaRussa would probably make this mistake again.


The sneer is gone from Albert's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
Because he just took ball four and now walks away from the plate.
And now the pitcher still holds the ball, and a reliever must come to bat,
And soon the air will be deflated, with the sound of the Cardinals falling flat.


Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in St Louis – because the reliever has struck out.