Goose Feathers

A Goose flutters awkwardly around the countryside dreaming it’s a soaring eagle— Goose, the retired relief pitcher, Quacks in the newspapers That his legend should be enshrined On a wall in the Hall of Fame Beside Ruth, Aaron, and Koufax. Hasn’t he heard of Icarus?

I remember Goose too well. For a few years he flew high, Flapping his wings powerfully enough To whiff baseball batters.

But then he became a broken-winged sparrow, Which is to say for a year in the late eighties The Goose was a big-buck Cub. Once I drove with friends 180 miles to Chicago To root my beloved team on. Until that hot August day, When he pitched relief against the Mets, The squad still hoped to compete in the pennant race.

Top of the ninth, Cubbies led six to five, Bases loaded and two out. Goose strode to the mound peacock proud To face slugger Kevin McReynolds. Goose squawked, Lifted his wings, And laid a gopher ball. Grand-slammed, My Cubs stunk like a goosed skunk For the rest of the season.

The only wall where Goose deserves to be remembered Is in the basement, Stuffed feathers on a peg drawing dust Next to a picture of Casey of the Mudville nine.