A hundred runs prevented
The catcher’s unknown stat
A thousand hours spent squatting
An uncoiled spring; an unpounced cat
His dues are paid
a career is made
Except when he’s at bat
Leave him alone
He knows his strengths
There’s a reason he gets paid
There are games to call
And runners to gun
Yes, he does get laid
Every team needs one;
That’s under the sun
Once a week he rules the plate
You better run fast
He’s his father’s son
If second base you seek
Tell yourself it’s just a game
When you show up late and lame
Who shall inherit the Earth?
Tis’ not you or me.
But Drew Butera, and the Meek.
