The Sleeper
If you’re ever in Chicago, , and you have some extra time, .
There’s a baseball legend buried there, a sleeper of a kind.
He won’t help you win at fantasy. It was long ago he played
For forty years or more he has been waiting in his grave.
John Donaldson was a Monarch on the Kansas City team,
perhaps the greatest pitcher ever in the Negro League.
His fastball was like Feller’s when Bob was in his prime
He had a Curve like Mathewson’s, a Giant of his time.
He is buried among teammates who never made the Show
A three hundred game winner that true fans ought to know.
In little towns and hamlets he won renown and fame
He never made the majors, they were then a white man’s game.
His victories and strikeouts have been obscured by time.
He was born a bit too early to ever break the color line.
He was working toting mailbags on his final fatal day
When, like his famous slider, he would break down and fade away.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Added by Poetry Lover
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