The story of Mudville Mick

I thought I'd pass along a poem written by my brother, Dave, this week in the aftermath of Phil Mickelson's latest U.S. Open disappointment. Nice to know somebody in the family has a way with words.

Mudville Mick
By Dave Green

The outlook was quite brilliant for the Mudville Mick that day;
The score stood four to four with but four holes more to play.
When Duval nearly died at three, and Barnes rode the bogey train,
A sickly silence had fallen upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Mickelson could but get a putt to drop
We'd put up even money now that he'd end up on top.

Mick had made a bird at twelve; at thirteen he made eagle,
and suddenly he was in the chase like a fox-hunting beagle.
He made a par at 14, then walked to fifteen tee,
The toughest hole of all with a green he couldn't see.

And now the urethane-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Micky stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Not great by Micky's standards, but he had a putt for par.
Like so many prior Opens, it failed to find the jar.

From the hillside, bleak with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a worn and distant shore.
"Oh no!" shouted someone in the stands, "Not again" another cried.
But Mickey still had most of New York standing stalwart by his side.

With a smile of Christian charity great Mickey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He parred the easy 16th, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Mickey needed birdie at one of the last two.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that hero Mickey would let it fly again.


The sneer is gone from Mickey's lip, his jaw is clinched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence the ball, and his cursed fate.

And now it lands softly in the long grass at the par three seventeen,
And now he needs to get it up and down from just off the green.

His second is not his best, it leaves him six feet for par.
If this one fails to find the cup, then honey start the car.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville -- Mickey's par putt has stayed out.