by James Finn Garner
Soler’s a basher, but Dusty’s hexed,
Fried the first winning Jew since Koufax–
Between cheating and chop,
Though, I for one hop
Next year’s series will lack for subtext.
Tonight’s Starting Firemen
by James Finn Garner
Atlanta’s faithful are true believers
But can Snitker depend just on relievers?
Then again, what the heck
It’s all hands on deck
Or the Braves look like underachievers.
Lost and Found on the Mound
by James Finn Garner
Atlanta’s a squadron in need
Of pitching to keep up to speed
But Morton’s cracked limb
Has made prospects dim
And who knows what’s wrong with Max Fried?
I Cannot Tell a Fibula
by James Finn Garner
Atlanta’s mound ace Charlie Morton
Was handling Houston, cutting and sorting
He then broke his leg
But pitched one more set!
Yet here I am, barely surviving the morning.
Houston Brings Winter to Boston, Win ALCS
by Stephen Jones
A weatherman on Beantown TV
Described it this way:
“You start here,” a flat hand
measuring height in the air.
“This is chilly. Okay?
Then you drop it to here.
This is freezing,
Just thirty-two degrees.”
He went on: “But it gets colder,
Down here…”
He ducked below the camera eye.
“… Is zero, and it’s so cold …
You freeze fruit and it shatters.
But there’s one more level …”
He looked the camera in the eye.
“… Colder still: Red Sox hitting.”
