Rhody at the bat

                          By Gerry Goldstein

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Pawtucket’s nine that day;

The owners said in Worcester that the team would move away!

From Slater Mill to Weekapaug the faithful fans were miffed; 

’Twas as if, with bases loaded, all our leadership had whiffed.

The first pitch came from ownership, and it was high and tight,

An ugly curve that missed the mark so bad no one would bite.

Then came several change-ups, and as time began to fly

Worcester tossed a faster pitch, and then it was goodbye.

How hard a blow this perfidy, how deep this hurtful void,

For we who recall Carlton Fisk, Wade Boggs and Oil Can Boyd.

Too bad a conference at the mound could not the stalemate burst,

So all that’s left are memories – of Lynn and Rice and Hurst.

Some point accusing fingers here, and other point them yon –

Regardless, it’s an end to those like Vaughn and Papelbon.

Some have placed the blame for this on just a single fellow,

But there’s enough to go around for more than Mattiello.

And what about the PawSox brass – could they have done us prouder?

Or in the end, did Worcester’s money speak up ever louder?

Those who say our view is just a little bit too narrow,

May not remember Nomar, and, of course, Conigliaro.

The end will leave a stubborn ache deep within the belly,

When we think of Barrett, and for sure, Rocco Baldelli.

Say what you will for Worcester and its oddball WooSox brand,

But we recall Ben Mondor and his friendly outstretched hand

Welcoming the faithful at the turnstiles of McCoy,

Whose verdant sod did Lester, Horn and Youkilis once ploy:

It’s there the longest game of all was played in ’81,

It’s there that once, on rehab, “Papi” hit a long home run.

It wasn’t Casey’s Mudville, but if you haven’t heard,

A “greatest moment” happened there, and it involved “ the Bird.” 

When the Red Sox got Mark Fidrych, his career was in the bucket,

But they took a chance and signed him, and sent him to Pawtucket.

Nine thousand pairs of eyes were on him back in ’82,

And Fidrych, with his mind made up to show what he could do.

McCoy was full to bursting as the castoff from the Detroit

Pitched with heart to demonstrate that he was still adroit.

In the ninth against Columbus, with the Sox up 7-5,

And him determined to establish that his arm was still alive,

First he got a ground-out, then a third-strike wave and miss –

The fans were going wild, and now we reminisce,

As we recall how Hobson, once a Red Sox man himself,

Came up to bat with hopes of putting Fidrych on the shelf.

The place was overflowing as Hobson toed the plate,

And took a healthy cut, but just a little bit too late!

Then Ball One, and after it another futile swing,

Now thousands waited breathlessly for what the Bird would sling!

The stage forever set, and with the park loud as could be,

Fidrych gave it all he had –but slipped down on one knee!

Still, that final pitch had darted swiftly from his hand –

A mighty swing, the crowd a-roar, and Hobson: He had fanned! 

But this was not the greatest moment ever at McCoy,

And if you don’t believe me just ask any girl or boy

Who ever dropped a fishing line from grandstand to the dugout

Seeking autographs (but very soon they’re gonna pull the rug out).

No, the greatest of the PawSox is in early evening cheers,

In fireworks and sausages and mascot polar bears,

And getting “carded” every time you ask them for a brew

Even though your driver’s license says you’re 92.

Oh, somewhere in this favored state the sun is shining bright,

Even though like Benny’s, PawSox vanish from our sight;

Somewhere men are laughing and little children shout,

But in this matter of the diamond, Little Rhody has struck out.

Now we’re left to realize, in almost 50 years,

That memory is all we have for smiles through our tears,

And when asked about Rhode Island, we’ll say without esprit,

It’s where once upon a golden time, the PawSox used to be.

 Gerry Goldstein (gerryg76@verizon.net) is a retired Providence Journal bureau chief and columnist. With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer and his “Casey at the Bat.”