"The problem with Votto is he doesn't run
out his grounders," he spat in the dirt.
He launched into this diatribe, older than time.
"Today's stars don't get the value of hustle,
that's for sure - they're lacking in grit." 
Yes, players were different in an earlier age.

You could listen to the man and guess his age.
He would argue that a walk won't drive in a run.
He would get angry with statistics and grit
his teeth at the suggestion that a kid not covered in dirt
at the end if the day could really show hustle.
His game was 50 years old, unchanged by time.

I thought this conversation would be a waste of time.
Here stands this old crank (he must be twice my age)
complaining that these millionaires won't hustle.
He is going to tell me how a modern team should be run,
but this ancient fool's ideas are as old as the dirt.
Next he will probably tell me, "Let's rebuild around grit!"

I tried not to roll my eyes. "You know who had grit?"
I saw this coming, it was just a matter of time
before I was told to ignore all the scandals and dirt
and discuss all the greatness instead, from an age
long ago. "You know, I never saw a ballplayer run
as hard as Peter Edward Rose, ol' Charlie Hustle."

Here we go again.  There is nothing bigger than hustle
and playing the game the right way, right? Grit
is the last refuge of the talentless, of the guy who can't run
fast enough to steal a base unless the pitcher takes his time
getting the ball to the plate. A player from whom age
has stolen speed gains grace from a uniform covered in dirt. 

I bit my tongue, sighed, and kicked at the dirt. 
There was no doubt I enjoyed watching hustle.
I remember playing the game at a younger age,
summers spent wiping down my face to remove the grit
I picked up from pointlessly diving all of the time
to make it look like I was quick, even if I couldn't run.

I can still hear my coach, "Hustle, son.  Run
it out!" Coach had age on me, but I had time. 
Now, we stand here and stare at the dirt and talk about grit.