Author’s note: It is rare I can bring up a thread of knowledge with author-poet/fellow-cyclist/friend Labeak that he doesn’t already know more about the subject than me… he has a steel trap for a mind. I was a fan of Steve Goodman’s before I knew who he was… Hope you enjoy. A.S.
Playin’ bars in his native Chicago,
’71 was a damn good year.
He was hangin’ with the likes of John Prine,
And opening for the Prophet of lyrics.
Kris’ mind blew like a train whistle,
The song, he eventually pitched to Cash.
Swing-and-a-miss by the man in black,
Arlo swooped it up in a flash.
But when he heard the kid play Sam Stone,
He eagerly crossed town to meet,
The author whose pen was much wiser,
Than his youth could ever foresee.
Chairs on the tables, tired, and groggy,
Prine blew’em away just the same.
Take note, it was the kid with a death sentence,
Who selflessly shared the fame.
A mighty personality in a failed vessel,
Pushing – against time he attacked.
His humor and wit were a blessing,
The depth in of his words take you back.
But he shared them like California Promises,
Embraced by Buffett and Coe,
Banana Republics and Caroline Street,
Sang Parrotheads at all of those shows.
Songs that would last through the ages,
But a flash in his malleable mind.
What could he have done with thirty-six more?
Expanding his scope for new finds.
A Cubby from the very beginning,
He doubly lived Wrigley’s curse.
Thirty-nine years of postseason drought,
By days, he missed their return.
Buffett stepped in with the anthem,
A likely and suitable sub,
The emotions were weaved through the ivy,
’Cause a good man was felt from above.
A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request? Go, Cubs, Go!