The fight left you as the team you inspired as children
took their positions on the field
Your poster on their parents walls
Baseball card in back pockets
Never flipped for luck
Saw you almost hit .400 in the World Series
You could not carry your team on a broken shoulder
The Shea Stadium outfield fence took away your arm
as you made the catch, but not your bat
Never your bat
Later in your career you were called on in the seventh, eighth, ninth inning
to do one job
The crowd chanted your name, knew you’d come to the plate
You’d pinch hit a single, double, never a triple
(foot speed was never your top skill)
or the tip your hat to the crowd encore home run
When your career ended you cooked
You fed the hungry, the first responders
Anyone
You gave back to a city that embraced you as one of its own
Now, Rusty, we say goodbye, au revoir, thank you
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