A scrappy shortstop in college and minors,
His energy was evident to all scouts and signers.
What he lacked with the bat he made up for with grit,
He stole bases, and dazzled with a mitt.
A big league player he was not meant to be,
But coach was another role he could see.
He broke in with the Dodgers, but not in L.A.,
Pittsburgh’s minors were next where he’d stay.
After a season of Mexican ball,
Mr. Collins at last got the call.
He stood at the helm of the Angels and ‘stros
They didn’t win much, and so it goes.
He headed to China and Japan like Yoda,
Then he coached minors in Duluth, Minnesota.
In 2010, a call came from the Queens,
“Come coach the Mets, we’ll pay you in beans.”
The team was in transition,
But Collins came with a mission.
Act as a father to the youngest of players,
And thumb your nose at all the naysayers.
The players they worked hard for their skipper,
Though his decisions made fans less than chipper.
He led the young guns and Ces to the finale,
Though the club came up short in their rally.
They fought through adversity in twenty sixteen,
Only to lose to the MadBum machine.
This year they brought the whole band back together,
But most of the big arms fell under the weather.
Perhaps we’ll be good in twenty eighteen.
But without Mr. C.it won’t be as keen.