Hardly a fan is now alive
Who remembers September '45.
Sam Breadon, the Cards' CEO,
Forced Brooklyn, a war-weakened foe,
To play twi-night illegally.
By noon the Dodgers had to be
In Wrigley Field the following day,
Awake, alert, and primed to play.
Leo Durocher was aghast.
He led a life you'd say was fast.
Lovely ladies, late hours would he keep.
Consequently, he prized his sleep.
But these two games would end so late
The Dodgers would be towed like freight
And up all night because cheap Sam,
That penny pinching Redbird man,
Believed the Bums were sitting ducks
And tried to make a few more bucks.
Revenge to Leo was red meat.
He threw at the Cards his best heat,
Lombardi and Gregg, and won two,
A great triumph for Dodger blue,
Knocking the Cards out of the race,
Leaving Sam with egg on his face.
"He couldn't put one over on me,"
Said Leo, "that cheap SOB!"
But now the Dodgers had to ride
To Chi, and Leo nearly cried
When he saw no diners, no bars,
Fifteen refrigerator cars,
Some smoke-filled coaches, dimly lit,
A locomotive belching grit
With number 70 on its cab
("It ain't that young!" was Leo's jab),
No Pullmans, no beds comfy and wide,
Just an all-night, sit-up chair ride
Inside a parlor car antique
Whose record-breaking losing streak
Would soon be history and done.
(This jaunt would be its final run.)
Some Dodgers prayed, then got on board,
Their souls entrusted to the Lord.
Once under way, the baseball chat
Made Leo doze right where he sat.
He dreamed a phantom poker game
Drew them like moths into a flame.
This heat provided lots of fun
For Leo since he always won.
"I beat all Cards. Read 'em and weep!"
Laughed Leo in his fitful sleep.
When heat turned into scalding steam,
He woke to learn it was no dream.
While leaping like a hungry horse,
Old 70 had stayed on course
But then rammed into something big,
A monstrous tanker-trailer rig.
It spewed what looked like red-hot beer.
It cooked to death the engineer.
The fireman, too, in awful pain,
Succumbed to this infernal rain.
It made the train a molten pyre,
Each window glow a furnace fire.
The lumber yard was now ablaze,
The coal yard soon a smoking haze.
At first the Skip thought all was well:
He'd simply croaked and gone to hell.
But then, as things began to boil,
He smelled no brimstone, only oil,
And from the way the hot flames played,
This hellfire had to be man made.
Unless it was divine decree,
For Leo death just couldn't be.
Cremation may end many tales;
This engine, though, stayed on the rails,
And right before the air brakes blew,
The hellish heat it thundered through;
And thus the Skip could shepherd there
His players into cool, fresh air.
It galled Durocher worse than fools
That someone else would break the rules,
And so he cleared his throat and paused
And said, "That Sam! See what he caused?
His greed caused people to be killed.
His Series' coffers went unfilled.
It gave the pennant to the Cubs.
It gave two wins to Dodger scrubs."
Greed nearly killed the Bums, I trust,
Twelve years before they bit the dust.
What did OM learn from this close call?
Why, nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.