Now tumbling back through time,
Twisted Torre and his liege,
The once heroic Hitman,
Here a monster, Mattingly,
Did surely go, to Chicago,
Upon the 12th of May;
In ‘96, ChiSox and Yanks,
Did play upon that day.

‘Twas on that fateful afternoon,
That Torre first believed,
That goals of Series wins,
Had a chance to be achieved.
For on that fateful afternoon,
Upon that crucial date,
His team did fall behind:
Yankees 0, ChiSox 8.
But rather than give up,
The Yankees chose to stand and fight,
And there in inning four,
A raucous rally did ignite:
The righteous ones, scratched out a run,
As Ruben ran ‘cross home,
And here is where our hero,
Makes his way into this poem.

Now after Fox did double,
Sending Backstop Joe to third,
A young man stepped up to the plate,
And turned his head skyward,
And with angelic calm,
He then did raise a prayer to Heaven,
To ask God to assist him,
With his team still down by seven.
Then with a steely poise,
And a batting eye precise,
This fledging, like our Savior,
Did choose to sacrifice.
And though he was a neophyte,
The Yanks did see a leader:
The man who would be Captain,
Their new Shortstop, Derek Jeter.

A legend for all time, who would combine,
A boyish bliss,
With the spirit of a warrior,
Every time he pumped his fist.
This angel unsurpassed,
Rejecting flash for stylish grace,
Whom men would dub Fair Jeter,
For his most cherubic face.
An angel without equal,
In the ways of bat and glove,
Who wore his pinstripes proudly,
Praising Yahweh up above,
And though he’d self-efface, he took his place,
‘Tween Ruth and Martin,
Number 2, whose legend grew,
with each foe he did dishearten,
And whose love was surely shared,
With lovely ladies everywhere,
But who vowed, by God in Heaven,
His virginity to spare,
Until his wedding day, but back in May,
His rookie year,
The world had caught but glimpses,
Of this storybook career.

Now from a creaky perch,
Atop the new Comiskey Park,
Joe Torre and the Hitman,
Vile villains of the Dark,
Did sit in sheer disgust; Chicago’s gusts,
Did not abate,
As the Yankees capped their comeback,
By a score of 9-8.
Led by Mighty Tino, like the Bambino,
Going yard,
While Paul O’Neill and Raines,
ChiSox pitching, did bombard.
Then Girardi drove in three,
And to the pen the Yankees gave,
A lead, which Mo would hold,
And which John Wetteland then would save.
And seeing this, the devilish,
Joe Torre sneered and snarled,
Then grabbed his evil ally,
With claws withered, worn and gnarled:
“How my blackened soul, as dark as coal,
“Does burn with hate,
“When I watch and when I hear,
“The Yankees cheer and celebrate,
“For long was I fool,
“Who did ally with pinstripe pride,
“’fore I found the force of fear,
“And their feeble God denied.
“And I did play a part, in the start,
“Of this latest streak,
“A dynasty, in the late 90s;
“How it causes me to shriek,
“For it was here, momentum built,
“Then quite a blaze it soon became,
“When Doc Gooden took the mound,
“On Yankee ground, in our next game,
“And though an age-d dolt,
“Whose talent long ago had quit,
“Doc Gooden pitched that game,
“Without giving up a hit.
“How it galls me, and appalls me,
“To think that I did cheer,
“So delighted and excited,
“At our prospects for that year,
“Never knowing that the reasons, for those seasons,
“Were a fraud,
“That no reward would be bestowed,
“By such a lying God,
“And the blood and sweat and tears,
“I surely shed, oh, so misled!
“Now I shall have my vengeance,
“When I strike these Yankees dead!
“And who shall be the first,
“But the Fairest one of all,
“Derek Jeter, sorry sop,
“Shall be the first of them to fall!
“Come my faithful liege, let us lay siege,
“To New York’s Yanks,
“Then unto mighty Satan,
“Shall we give eternal thanks!”

Then racing from the rafters,
Loosing laughter in his glee,
He called to his companion,
“Come and join me, Mattingly!”
But though he still felt spurned,
And surely yearned to curse the Yanks,
Who had deemed to squash his dreams,
Of managing their righteous ranks,
Joe’s murder lust, did still disgust,
Ol’ Number 23,
And in his heart, in no small part,
He still felt sympathy,
For the team who had been family,
For those who’d given him a home,
Who stood there by his side,
And vowed he’d never fight alone.
And there, with much despair,
The humbled Hitman did cry out,
To ask God for forgiveness,
Then with a mighty shout,
Did swoop down with great speed,
His Yanks in need of his assistance,
And catching up to Joe, he stopped his foe,
With fierce resistance.
The demon scratched and clawed,
In utter rage to be betrayed,
And struck at Mattingly,
For the weakness he’d displayed,
For just as Joe’s fell killing blow,
Was ’bout to be unleashed,
Young Jeter Fair, still unaware:
From Reaper’s reach released.

Then calling out below,
Mattingly bid Jeter, “Fly!”
But Fair Jeter, far from fleeing,
Joined the battle in the sky,
And with their might combined,
The once and future Yankee Caps,
Did fight the Satan spawn,
Till it did crumble and collapse,
But ever shrewd, the devil’s brood,
Did escape their wrath divine,
Fleeing then, to some new “when”,
Somewhere further back in time.

Turning then to Mattingly, Derek did see,
The damage done,
For Donnie had been ravaged,
Though the battle had been won.
“Hurry now,” the Hitman cried,
“In the balance hangs the fate,
“Of every legend, every epic,
“That past Yankees did create.
“That wicked beast, its hate unleashed,
“Stole the sacred crystal balls,
“God forgive me, and take pity:
“‘Twas me who opened up the walls,
“Of Yankee Stade; and now repaid,
“In utter shame I lay before you,
“To stop this villain, we must hurry,
“Now fly fleetly, I implore you!”

Then with a burst of light,
Out of sight did Jeter blink,
On the path, of Torre’s wrath,
Yankee history on the brink.
And watching from the ground,
Ol’ Donnie found an inner peace,
And the turmoil he had carried,
In that moment, did release.
He had been a hero,
Who had led the Yank attack,
O’er at first, but he’d been cursed,
By an ailing, aching back,
Wounded in the fight ‘gainst sin,
‘Till that day, it did arrive,
When he left the Yanks, retired,
At the end of ‘95.
And his career, did bring him cheer,
But of regrets, he did have one:
That he had not partaken,
In their magic championship run.
And as he watched the holy war,
From seats afar, his heart grew sad,
For he had missed out on the ring,
He had wanted oh so bad.
‘Twas not the piece of jewelry,
But that joy it represents:
To know your works and deeds,
Have shaped the course of life’s events.

A feeling that he felt right then,
A cheer that warmed his heart:
To know now, in that season,
He had played a tiny part.
And there, the elder Captain,
Found the joy that he did seek,
In ‘96, as glistening bliss,
Rolled from his eyes and down his cheeks.