Poem to Festus Higgins by Eugene Carney

By Maria Montoro Edwards

The following poem was in my Aunt Winifred Philbin Rader’s scrapbook. It is an original typed copy probably given to Winifred’s mother, and Festus Higgins’ sister, Winifred Higgins Philbin. In the fourth stanza is the following, “He’s quietly, gently resting, With a pal that he loved so”. I wonder if the author is referring to James Connolly who is listed as “mascot” on the famous Minooka Blues team photo.  James “Francis” Connolly was the first World War I death for Minooka and for whom the legion is named. Festus Higggins was a promising pitcher until he was hit by a fast pitched ball in 1908 against a team from Carbondale, and his career was cut short. He continued to play in minor leagues following the injury but was never the same. My grandmother, Dolores Philbin McDonough remembered her father, Patrick Philbin taking Festus to a mental hospital of sorts. He had seizures following the injury.  The funeral was in the family home of Patrick and Mary Mulkerin Higgins on Pittston Avenue and the funeral mass was at St. Joseph’s Church. Honorary pall bearers were the O’Neill brothers, Chick Shorten, and Mike McNally.  Attached by paperclip to the poem was a scapula with scalloped edges and “J” and “M”.

This Poem Is Dedicated In Loving Remembrance Of Festus Higgins. One Who In Life Taught Me Much.

“Memories”

Years ago there was a dreamer.

            Hoping, waiting day by day,

With a heart that was never yearning

            For in big league games to play.

He had youth and strong ambitions,

            Hoping someday to win fame,

As a pitcher in the majors,

            Playing in a baseball game.

Years had passed and gone forever,

            And a dreamer still was he,

Always waiting for to-morrow,

            For a day that could not be.

Always hoping for that someday,

            When his dreams would all come true,

But it was not to be,

            It’s a blessing he never knew.

Sixteen years ago it happened,

            He was struck by a fast pitched ball,

And in later years that followed,

            He wasn’t the same old “Fest” at all,

Perhaps deep down at heart,

            He know his day was done,

But he loved the game and played it,

            Even though the race was run.

Tonight he’s gently sleeping,

            In the grave yard on the hill,

Just overlooking the diamond,

Where he proved his pitching skill,

Right beside the baseball diamond,

            Where he played not long ago,

He’s quietly, gently resting,

            With a pal that he loved so.

Up there in the big leagues,

            McNally, Shorten, and O’Neill,

Are playing first class baseball,

            With honesty and zeal.

But I’m sure their thoughts must wander,

            To by-gone days so sweet,

When the old Minooka Blues,

            They never tasted defeat.

Now the baseball season is over,

            And they’ll come back once more,

But there’ll be no welcome from someone,

            As there was in days of yore.

A voice they knew is silent.

            A pal they loved has gone.

And in the years that are to come,

            His memory will guide them on.

It doesn’t matter that he failed,

            To reach the big league show,

He was just as good as the best of them,

            That’s a thing we all know,

Tall and straight and smiling,

            With hair now turned to gray,

If some of the “breaks” had been with him,

            He would pitch a World Series someday.

The game he loved he played well,

            On the level, on the square,

And always searched for his goal,

            But know it is not there.

In DEATH he has found his goal,

            That to him will bring release,

From a world that is full of sorrows,

            And I know that he’ll find peace.

Since he’s gone each one will miss him,

            Life won’t seem the same at all,

Never again to hear: “Batteries for the game

            Higgins and O’Neil - - Play Ball!”

Never again will he grasp the ball,

            Or thoughtfully wind up,

And deliver the sphere to home plate,

            At the call of “Batter Up!”

Never again will baseball

            Boast of a man like “Fest”,

He was a happy-go-lucky fellow,

            Who always did his best.

Always a king among princes,

            His memory will still live on,

Through the years that are before us,

            Even though old “Fest” is gone.

To-night he is marching onward.

            Out across the Great Divide,

And we behind shall mourn him,

            Because our friend has died.

But why should we be sorry,

            Because he has found release,

When we know that death has brought him,

            The one thing he looked for - - PEACE?

These words that I have written,

            Could very easily be erased,

But a pal who was “square” like “Festy”,

            Somehow never could be replaced.

He was born, he lived, and he lived well,

            Till it came his turn to die,

Now nothing remains for me to say, only

            “Farewell, old friend, good-bye!”

Composed By: Eugene P. Carney.

243 Davis Street, Minooka, Penna.