with hands jammed in back pockets

and stooped shoulders aggressively thrust forward-

a determined hermit crab

or garbage scow heading for its last load.

Seeing Casey's face

was to stare at Methuselah himself.

You KNEW you could reach Florida

following the wrinkle from cheek to jaw.

Case irked many ballplayers

(Rizzuto and Coleman despised him;

Woodling and Bauer contemplated mayhem)

but seldom forgot writers' names

or what they drank.

He was great copy-

a demented Santa Claus

with his own bag of phrases-

screaming 'butcherboy' at Andy Carey,

jabbering constantly of Mr. Berra,

'which is my assistant manager',

and yelling at his pitcher

to 'throw him a dead fish'.

The ol' perfessor epitomized difference-

as turbaned swami staring into baseball,

up late with sick relative (Old Grandad),

or winning 10 pennants in 12 years.

Can't do that wth the bat on your shoulder-

tra la, tra la.

Dan Taylor