by Raphael Badagliacca
This was a game of catches
And misses that were catches
Of a flight whose arc
Did but did not leave the park
Of a ball that maybe maybe might
Fall fast enough
To elude the relentless intent
Of leather to end the night.
A Hand? Out!
by Hilary Barta
A homer’s the call, hip-hooray!
Was it over the wall or in play?
But for hands of the fans
Would it land in the stands?
With close blows let them fall where they may.
Applause, Please, for the Retirees
by James Finn Garner
As the season ends and the playoffs loom,
Let us pause a sec and make some room
In our doggerel feed for those athletes
Who’re hanging up mitts and jocks and cleats.
The Jints will miss ol’ Hunter Pence
Of flaming beard and glare intense.
After so many seasons, Bartolo Colon
Will finally get to shower alone.
Minnesotans, pray to your higher power
For another guy even close to Mauer.
Now David Wright, Mets’ grand old man,
Will have to watch them choke from the stands.
With the Angels’ collapse, Mike Scioscia
Might do well inspecting for OSHA.
Chase Utley being out of the game
Frees me from trying to rhyme his name.
And with no regrets, let’s bid adieu
And good riddance to Chief Wahoo.
Red Sox 4, Yankees 3
by Stephen Jones
I turned off the television
After last night’s do-or-die game.
I felt the gray disappointment
Which filled Yankee Stadium.
Then I had a chalkboard thought:
Analytics, metrics–these are fine,
Like ammunition in a debate–
But one thing can’t be measured:
The “It” factor, which makes a team.
Call it luck or unseen chemistry,
“It” is something not on paper.
The equation’s simple, but elegant:
Capitalize; seize the moment:
Boston did; the Yankees didn’t.
“You’re So Strange”: The Luis Severino Song
by HoraceClarke66
With apologies to Carly Simon
You walked into the bullpen
Eight minutes before game time.
Your cap strategically cocked above one eye
You said your fastball was 99.
You had one eye on your catcher and
You missed his signs all night,
And all the Sox dreamed that you’d stay in longer
You’d stay in longer…
You’re so strange
You probably think you’re still a good pitcher.
You’re so strange
Your madness gets richer and richer.
Well, you had us back in the first half
When your stuff was lights out.
We said you would win your Cy Young soon
Of your future there was no doubt.
But your fastball straightened out over the plate
Your breaking stuff fell all about.
Our Series dreams were just clouds in our coffee
Clouds in our coffee…
You threw real hard just like a real ace
And you had all of the poses down.
But in the end you couldn’t go four innings
You looked like quite a clown.
Well you’re where you should be all the time
Except when it’s time to go.
Then you look just like Sonny
Or another complete schmo
Another complete schmo…
You’re so strange
You’ve never even heard of Ron Darling
You’re so strange
I’d even trade your ass for old Starlin’…
Trade your ass for old Starlin’…
Originally appeared in the Yankee-centric blog, It is High, It is Far, It is….caught.