by Stephen Jones
Wha’happened, Red Sox Nation?
Cleveland was more resilient,
That’s what — and even with
A banged-up rotation.
So, no late-inning magic —
No Big Papi and his swinging stick.
In fact, the Boston bats mostly were
A disappearing act.
Funny, how it goes —
how the regular season crescendo
Can go out the postseason window,
When one team’s hot
And the other is not.
by James Finn Garner
Tell me, has it come to this–
To be outhit by Coco Crisp?
To win outright the AL East,
Then be swept out like autumn leaves?
To watch my teammates flailing madly
And our hurlers piching badly?
Then step out for a curtain call
And have all Fenway watch me bawl?
I know I’ve won three rings, but still–
I’m not quite set to give up the thrill.
by Michael X. Ferraro
The cap of Richard Porcello
Casts a dim light on the fellow.
It’s encrusted with gunk
And emits such a funk
Pine tar transforms into Jell-O.
by James Finn Garner
Before the Fall gets underway,
Let us doff our caps and say
Goodbye to those who’ll junk their cleats,
Leave the park and walk the streets.
Super-versatile Angel Chone
Will now be the utility man at home.
Grant Balfour, hothead Aussie,
Can only fume when his wife gets bossy.
Phil Humber’s vaunted perfect game
Was his sole stat worth noting (such a shame).
The Prince has trouble with his neck–
He’ll inspire no more fear on-deck.
Tex and A-Rod will leave the Yanks
And all their fans will mumble thanks,
While Raf Soriano has called an end
To tell war stories, a fine fireman.
But let’s not forget the other guys,
Young tyros once, with starry eyes,
Who gave their all but somehow missed
The general manager’s call-up list.
They’re just as key to the game as any
Adam LaRoche or Brad Penny.
Talent, drive and dreams they bid,
Just like us when we were kids.
by Hart Seely
We will moon him from the bleachers.
We will moon him from the stands.
He will think our butts strange creatures
From some weird exotic lands.
We will moon him from the boxes,
Where the richest are assigned.
Full autumnal equinoxes,
Fifty-thousand grand behinds.
We will moon him from the upper decks,
Way up there in the sky,
He’ll see fifty-thousand hammy specks,
Each moonbeam shouting, “Bye!”
We’ll moon Big Papi all the night,
Show all our nooks and crannies.
Into his brain we’ll burn the sight
Of fifty thousand fannies.
We will moon him in the lower tiers,
Where cheeks doth shine quite proudly,
We’ll moon him as we sip our beers,
And often, farting loudly.
We will go down in the hist’ry book,
Our tickets will be keepsakes!
We’ll never know a greater look
Than fifty-thousand beefcakes.
We’ll moon him at that certain time,
When Papi waves, “Goodbye now.”
No cop shall charge us with a crime,
He’ll merely wink an eyebrow.
We’ll moon him for posterity!
To show the world what’s right,
Though some will cry, “Vulgarity!”
They’ll know we won the night.
O, it shall be one glorious scene!
A gathering of the masses!
No greater use shall e’er have been,
For fifty-thousand asses.
For more on the drive to moon David Ortiz in his final appearance at Yankee Stadium tonight, go to Hart’s website, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught.
More information on this historic event is also at MoonBigPapi.com.