Tomorrow marks the 2011 debut of Yanks baseball on the radio, and the return of John Sterling. Which makes tonight:The Night Before Sterling
‘Twas the night before Sterling, when all through the house,
Each creature was fearing, what would spring from his mouth;
For tomorrow he sits in his Yank’s broadcast chair,
And starts a new season of spewing hot air;
The radios were tuned to the Yankee’s network,
Just awaiting the s**t that would emit from this jerk;
I took out my jersey, I put on my cap,
And finally awoke from my long winter’s nap;
When out of the radio, there rose such a clatter;
As Sterling had started his mind-numbing patter;
He’s always mistaking, what are strikes and are balls,
And makes efforts painstaking, on his home run calls;
On Jeter, on Text, on Jolly Saint Nick,
On my nerves, for quite frankly, he’s making me sick;
Is it fair? Is it foul? Is it over the wall?
He’s calls are like noses, he blows one and all;
But this game is a tough one, there’s just no explaining,
And while he makes little sense, there’s no sense complaining;
So here I exclaim, whilst full of derision;
Click off your radio, and watch television!
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It's now April, fool & what have we to look forward to, in yr estimation? Another year of feeble dithering about the majestic JOHN STERLING!! A poet now, are ye? Limp, 8th grade level parody, not fit for the weird likes of even Al Yankovic. What the hell--you've had months to come up with something--anything--of interest, insight, something new, witty, incisive. Nada & bupkes, you clod. You've had months to practice yr body blows and still can't land a punch. It's called woodshedding, m'boy, you gotta work to achieve and you've been resting on yr teeny & crushed pile of crusty laurels. Meanwhile, JOHN STERLING! towers above you, a wordy eminence that can't be grazed by yr flaccid, needless tirades. P.U., man. Sterling warbles like the first robin of spring--no sound more welcome to my ears. How many hours I whiled away this long, lonely winter playing my archive of STERLING!! broadcasts, lovingly cassette-taped-that stretch back many a year, just to dazzle with all the good gravy he routinely ladles atop the WCBS broadcasts. Yes, yes, I know, what you're thinking: I do have the express written consent of both the New York Yankees and MLB to revisit all these bon mots--and it's written in blood!! I have DAT-'ed and edited just to listen to an endless archive of his "live commercials". "Can't . . . getting a haircut" delivered with straight man timing that could only be described as "Dean Martinesque"! Check the tapes!! Priceless bounty!! And now the bright light at the end of the interminable tunnel. The man, the myth, the legend, crowing the Good News of homers in Yankeeland--Tex'messages, Grandymans and an almost A-Bomb (whoops!)--I am happy at last and there's little you can do to rain upon our glorious and awe-inducing parade. I remain your better,
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