Letters

The Firing of Bobby Ayala

The following poem, apparently by a longtime Mariners fan, was left anonymously at The Weekly. Readers will note the aggrieved tone and numerous invocations of key moments in Mariners baseball, political, and business history.

(Sung to the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald")

The legend lives on from the Mariner fans

Who were angry and not without reason

At the end of each game, they would hang their heads in shame,

For the bullpen had blown it all season

Their eyes filled with tears, they would say through their beers,

For relief man we need a new fella

And that was the way they decided that day

On the firing of Bobby Ayala

The team was the best in the American West

With a roster of talented batters

The starters on the mound were the finest around

With the Big Units contract in tatters

Prepared to embark in an open-air park

Which the town built despite voters' bitchin'

And after the show, when they'd spent all that dough,

Could they spare any money for pitchin'?

As summer dragged on Ken and Edgar hit bombs,

With their leads often blown in late innings

The manager sighed as the team's prospect's died,

"You know sportsmanship's worth more than winning."

They managed to sneak into pennant race week,

And the Times called it "a new beginning."

But they fell three games down; when the fourth came around,

Could it be the Grim Reaper was grinning?

The M's owned the night, with a homer to right

And a couple of runs off of Griffey

But there were mistakes, Cleveland caught a few breaks

And the Mariners' future looked iffy.

The Big Unit tried to retire the side

But his pitch count was higher than hot damn

he tried to hang on, but too soon he was gone

In the face of an Indian grand slam

The eighth inning came the B-man went out

Saying, "Fellas, we'll win, let me show ya."

His seventeenth ball got slammed over the wall

He said, "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."

Piniella said heck, we've got Timlin on deck,

We'll melt down like a burning marshmalla

And later that night, with the Series out of sight,

Came the firing of Bobby Ayala

Now some people said that their chances were dead

Well before they made poor Bob a scapegoat

The fans said we're through, Randy Johnson left too

And some kids wrote the owners a hate note

Inquiring just why they'd let Series dreams die

For the next generation in Sea-Town

The owners all cried like their mothers had died

And they threatened to pack up and leave town

Funereal skies in Seattle rained down

On the streets where the dreams turned to ashes

The fans shook with grief, and they cursed in disbelief

Clubs who don't put their brains where their cash is

The legend lives on down in Pioneer Square

Of the year that hope fled to gates pearly

And the fans live in woe, as the Mariners all know

When the pain of October comes early

—Anonymous

 
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