On an occasion worth celebrating, and with inspiration and apologies to two master poets: Shelley and Halladay.

I met a traveler from Pattinson Avenue
Who said: Four vast and guileless flags of cloth 
Fly forever in the stadium. Near them, on the infield, 
Half cuttered, a broken-off face lies, whose futile at-bat, 
And frustrated scowl, and inability to hit bold command, 
Tell that a hurler well the pitch counts read 
Which yet dominate, stamped on lifeless leather, Chooch fingers, 
The hand that mocked them, and the CGSHO that fed; 
And on the flags these words appear: 
"My name is Halladay, ace of aces: 
Look upon my works, ye Cy Youngs, ye hitters, and despair!" 
No outs beside remain. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, well fed and homeward bound 
The lone and level stand(iing)s cheer loud away.