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A Fan's Poem

The Number Grows

Written by: Tim Farquer on September 8, 1998

Two out in the fourth and Cubs 2-0 the score,

Big Mac approaching, the crowd starts to roar.

A man puts his son on his shoulders to see,

not what has happened, but what just might be.

He gets to the box with the world on its feet,

he taps out a little clay stuck in his cleat.

The eighth of September, the crowd wants to know,

when will McGwire unleash his next blow?

With the Maris family all seated by first,

his father and bat boy both ready to burst.

I wonder if Roger and Ruth are both watching?

I wonder if Brickhouse and Caray are talking?

Our hearts are all pounding while Mac sets his hat,

the catchers a munchkin, that toothpicks a bat.

Trachsel the wind-up, his left foot steps back,

McGwire takes a short stride and then there's a crack.

The noise from the crowd quickly turns to a lull,

Trachsel gave Big Mac a pitch he could pull.

A solid line drive, I think this one is trouble,

hooking and falling it must be a double.

But that ball is tatered, Big Mac hit it all,

it'll either go over or, go through the wall.

The ball barely clears and lands 'neath the stands,

thousands are screamin' and clappin' their hands.

Our past time is back, the record is new,

he's done what no mortal could possibly do.

So take off your cap and lift up your beer,

McGwire has hit 62 in just, one, year!

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