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