A Poem to Celebrate Giancarlo Stanton’s Final At-Bat of 2018

by Hart Seely

The final frame, of thee I sing,
The game, the season, everything,
Two runners on, the Redsocks cling,
The tying run we’ll surely bring,
If only Stanton doesn’t swing.

Craig Kimbrel stares, the fourth pitch thrown,
A good ten inches off the zone.
Way down near Stanton’s anklebone.
He lunges, strike three! Carved in stone,
Our rally spiked, our chances blown.

We score two runs, the ninth ends quick,
We simply needed one big stick
One slugging, power-swinging dick,
We might have pulled a magic trick,
Had only Stanton called in sick.

He came to New York seeking fame,
Now sits all winter, full of shame.
A fallen star, a tainted name,
And he could now avoid the blame,
If only Stanton skipped that game.