Pitching is the key; that’s how the baseball wisdom goes.
And defense is important, too, as anybody knows.
You’ve got to score some runs, of course, so power counts as well,
And speed has never slumped, it’s said, as far as I can tell.
Earl Weaver, who was wise in terms of what a club required,
Said three-run homers, paired with pitching, were what he desired.
But isn’t it a little odd, and even, maybe, funny,
The Earl of Baltimore neglected mention of the money
That any club must have behind the show that’s in the park?
It’s not as if the show that’s in L.A. is going dark,
But Frank McCourt, who bought the team with lots of borrowed dough,
Has spent a lot on haircuts, houses, cars, and baubles, so
The stone the Dodgers have become no longer yields much blood,
And so into the story strides the irked Commish’ner Bud.
Oh, baseball is a pastime. It is lyrical, as well.
Its charm is that there is no clock, as every fan can tell.
But time runs out on any man who cannot pay the bills,
And banks have clocks, and those who make the loans won’t trade the thrills
Of walk-off homers, stolen bases, crowds inclined to cheer…
For that which makes the world go ’round and red ink disappear.
The moral of this story, and the moral of this song,
Is do not buy into a club where you do not belong.
And if you buy a ball team, maybe you should be content
With only several houses, or perhaps you ought to rent.
And when you need a haircut, try the Great Cuts in the mall,
And ask your wife to do the same, so you don’t drop the ball
And run out of the dough that’s due to all the guys who play
The game you prob’ly wish you’d never heard of everyday…
And here’s a final bit of counsel: here’s a better plan:
No matter how the deal goes down, stay married if you can.