Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau
Had miserable seasons, and so
.    The Twins are now heading
.    Into future rough sledding
In the land of the ice and the snow.

600 dingers for Big Jim Thome!
Hit without juicing but only
Muscle and heart
And a jaw
That could flatten John McGraw.
Our own version of the Mighty Casey
Whom  dads can point to
And tell their kids in awe,
“That, my darlings, THAT is a slugger!”

Twenty runs the Rangers scored,
Seven of them had three hits.
Every arm the Twins ran out there
Gave Ron Gardenhire the shits.

Paul
Hit a ball
Out for his fifth straight day. No Sox
Bat has got six straight days of park-vacating knocks.

Mitch
Also hit a ball out, which
Put things such that his squad won.
No outs–not a pitch (bar 10 and a half prior innings’ worth)–prior to winning run.

Zack
Didn’t lack
For Ks,
Notching 10 against Rays.

Ryan Howard
Is not a coward.
His hit wound up a big inning
So his squad wound up winning.

Brian
Had to start pitching, as Placido and Ryan
Both got hit by a pitch
On back-to-back plays, that inning. At that point, you must switch.

Carl Pavano
Had to go mano-a-mano
With his opposing moundsman. Carl didn’t notch a hit
But as his squad had 8 in as many at-bats, was cool with it.

Justin Smoak
Was part of a ninth-inning croak.
His squad was up by four
But couldn’t shut Washington’s door.

Ember Nickel blogs at Lipogram! Scorecard!

CHICAGO WHITE SOX
Will Morel mushroom
into a good third baseman
Or just become waste?

CLEVELAND INDIANS
Um…Jack Hannanan?
In the lineup? At third base?
It’s not April 1.

DETROIT TIGERS
The Tigers, a team
of 25 question marks.
A growl? A meow?

KANSAS CITY ROYALS
Ending up with Jeff
Francoeur…that’s a real bad day
At the rummage sale.

MINNESOTA TWINS
If he keeps winning,
Carl Pavano can look like
A porn star all year.

Before thy vic’try p’rades begin,
With Sterling’d tongue and Suzyn’d spin,
Be gone, olde curd! Ye shalt not sin!
One gaem doth not thy playoffs win!

Let no grand pride swell deep within
Thy supple breast, thy pinstripe’d skin,
Let nay among ye boast to Twin!
One gaem doth not thy playoffs win!

Do not thy winner’s hanky wave,
Scout not the Philly, G’int or Brave.
These brutish Twins we’ve yet to stave.
One gaem doth not Octobre save!

This poem was pilfered from Hart’s Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is …. Caught.

Now we lay us down to sleep.
Who really thought that we could sweep?

We thought we had a chance at Central,
If Ozzie kept from going mental.

God, forgive us of our sins
And tell us why you made the Twins.

Tell us why we let go Thome,
Then brought in that dreadlocked phony.

Thank you for our newfound heroes,
For Edwin Jackson, Alex Rios,

Thank you for our older guard,
Thanks for Paulie going yard.

Please keep the squad from getting creaky.
Make sure A.J. keeps playing sneaky.

Now we’ll watch the Hawks and Bears,
Trying to ignore our fears

Of Kenny really signing Manny
And Ozzie going to Miami.

Have the Twins sold their soul to the devil?
Have they penned a new contract in blood?
Has their lust for a title bereft them
Of a compass to tell bad from good?

What else can explain their performance?
Half the team’s on the disabled list,
while rooks amble up from the minors
Like Joe Jackson in a cornfield mist.

Thome’s swing has shrugged off a decade,
And Pavano now hurls like an ace.
Something’s hinky, you know, with these Twinkies.
Have the precepts of God been replaced?

Yet one sable evening in Cleveland
Came the devil’s own agent, Fausto.
For their pride he pulled ‘em back to the pit.
Ol’ Nick will be paid what he’s owed.

Posted 9/14/10

“It was a warm day in August when history was made,
And the fans in the boxes were looking for shade.
The bases were loaded, it was the last inning.
From the sound of the crowd, you knew we weren’t winning.

When out of the dugout came No. 3,
The last hope for the Twins it was sure to be.
Now legend tells of Casey at the bat,
But today it was the Killer who tipped his hat.

Cursing and swearing came from the stands,
When Harmon was waved back by Rigney’s hand.
An astonishing look came over the Brew’s face,
When Rigney said, ‘Manuel is taking your place.’

A disbelieving look as he turned around,
Placed his bat in the rack without a sound.
Then from the bench came No. 9,
Who’d been warming the pine for a long, long time.

As he stepped from the dugout came a yell from the stands,
‘You can’t hit Manuel, the Killer’s our man.’
Never before in history had they pinch hit for the Brew,
Especially with some hillbilly hitting .182.

This was a mockery, a dirty rotten shame,
To pinch hit for a man who’s a sure Hall of Fame.
But Charlie heard not a word as he strode to the plate.
He only noticed the crowd’s eyes; they were filled with hate.

‘God, help me this one time,’ kept going through his mind.
‘If I ever get a hit, let it be this time.’
Jim Palmer looked in and thought, ‘This should be a cinch,
I’ll throw three by this rider of the bench.’

Down came the ball with a little white glare,
As Manuel stood watching for he knew it was there.
‘Strike one,’ came the call from the man in blue,
And four pitches later it was 3 and 2.

Now everything rode on the very last pitch.
Would Charlie stay a poor boy or would he suddenly be rich?
The crack of the bat and a long drive to right,
The back of Blair’s uniform is the only thing in sight.

The roar from the stands gave a deafening scream…
Then Charlie fell out of bed, it was only a dream.”

From the Cleveland Indians website 2000.  Copyright c by Charlie Manuel.  Discovered on the Baseball Almanac website.

Posted 7/22/2010

They live and die by the weather in this town.
It’s headline stuff when the snow starts coming down.
But still I didn’t expect the thing I viewed:
That a rainout made the top of the evening news.

Posted 5/9/10