WPCNR PRESS BOX. By John Baseball Bailey. November 25, 2003: Warren Spahn died yesterday. But, he has been an immortal for the last 40 years. He was the winningest lefthander of all time in baseball. He won more than Grove, Koufax, Ford, Hubbell. He pitched more. He threw the most shutouts, 63. But strangely there are few pictures of the “Veteran Lefthander.” But, he now has a poem saluting the way he was:
Ode to Spahnie
The Great Southpaw is gone.
No longer will the lean scarecrow figure astride the mound
In autumn shadows drawn
Across sharply etched diamonds awash in fans’ sound.
But, if you let your mind drift back to the fields of the past,
The original crafty southpaw is pitching still,
Sun dazzling on his white uniform, the “Braves & Tomahawk”
Across lean chest, heroically in motion on that mound, ever fast.
No more will we see the high leg kick
Pointing to the caldron of the October sun,
The interminable stretch with runners on
His gaunt stoop shoulders bent to task.
With red-billed cap pulled low over knitted brow.
Sharp eyebrows squinted in concentration
Like Sherlock Holmes puzzling over a Clue,
He would nod and choose his crafty pitch selection.
Undaunted by challenge, at his best
In the game the Bravos needed,
Our Spahnie took the ball and “21” would
Pitch forever into the 10th if so deeded.
The clutch to Spahnie was where he wanted to be,
Pitching to baseball’s best never feared he.
Wounded in action in World War II, a fighter to the end,
He started pitching when rookies had had their cup of coffee.
Pitching every fourth day, never missing a start,
The country flame thrower from Buffalo,
Brought brains to the pitchers’ art,
Remembering what sluggers hit off him whether it was high or low.
Throwing between starts, he scoffed at pitch counts,
Threw until through, had he had three years back
He would have won 400 games. Winning more than
Grove, Ford or Koufax, and the name Spahnie would a ballpark pack.
With jug handle curve sharp, hitters called him Hooks,
Old Spahnie, a veteran at 25 was old beyond his due.
Reluctant to leave the hill, he rose to the occasion like Meriwell in books.
With slider, change, curve, fastball, and screwgie he pitched he never threw.
Seven straight 20-game seasons, equaling only the Great Matty,
Spahn never talked records, he just kept taking the ball.
Even in the twilight of his career, he would pitch whippersnapper Koufax
To a draw losing 2-1 in last great Met moment.
Drifting through old World Series programs, he is young and spry
He leans in, facing Robinson, Snider, Mantle, and Musial.
Shakes off one sign, then another, as Crandall flashes Signs.
He has what he wants then swings to windup, effortlessly casual.
Then comes the wind, building momentum like a
I see the leisurely double pump windup, rocking in rhythm…
Mesmerizing the Musial, the Mays, the Kiner standing in.
Next, the high leg kick, toes of his left spike clawing sky,
Head leaning back at impossible angle, left hand gripping horsehide
Almost touching mound, lashing ball overhand to plate
Painting the black, inside and low, sealing sluggers’ fate.
Arbiter Dascoli rings up Strike Three on the outside.
The veteran lefthander with the crooked smile
All business whether in Yankee Stadium shadows and blue haze
In Braves Field off the Charles with the wind blowing in in September Days.
In a packed
The pitcher who never forgot a pitch he offered
To get an out or ended up out
Leaves his name at the top of the list of those
Who ever threw from the portside, saying match this.
He is starting in today’s game in Heaven.
Finishing his warmup tosses, ready as always to work
To the likes of the Babe, the Rajah, the Gray Eagle, Double XX and Ott
As he joins the lineup of the games greats in the Lord’s Ballpark.
The National Anthem plays, with Gladys Gooding at the organ
Red Barber, Earl Gillespie, and Mel Allen at the mike to describe
His first Heavenly League start as the greats of the past stand attention,
Welcoming the veteran lefthander to their tribe.
Old Braves who have gone before welcome the rookie once more:
Matthews, and Red, Sain of rain fame, and Adcock and Easter,
Torgeson and Logan, and Ennis old Bravos Champions who knew the score
Eager to stand behind him on the eternal green outfield as he takes the red clay mound encore.
Batting ninth and pitching, Number 21
He adjusts his cap, down over his eyebrows.
Turns to toe the slab, ready to throw ‘til game is done.
The veteran Lefthander swings to the windup, his work has just begun.
With old-white numeraled scoreboard rising behind
his shoulders
Fans in the jury box bleacher sit in judgment.
He is forever 25 once again, throwing the heater of his glory
Exploding it inside as Jackie flails weekly into the pitching grind.
Managers Southworth and Haney in the first base dugout
Smile with satisfaction as the Lefty Legend begins shutout number 64.
Farmer by trade after his mound days were through good old Spahnie
Could always be counted on to come through.
