a little Dylan. Thomas, that is.

For the Yankees

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Hot bats should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though umpires at their end know left is right,
Because their calls have forked like lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Pitchers slump and scowl, crying how slight
The strike zone has become, and in their way,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Catchers who tried to guide the pitch in flight,
And learn, too late, they erred, it flies away,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Skippers, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes of umpires have the final say,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, announcer, there, from your sad height,
Curse, bless us now and cheer us on, we pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(Apologies.)