by Michael X. Ferraro
You can’t spell “champagne” without Chapman
But a bubbly clubhouse mishapp’nin’
Might cause Yankee grief,
A lack of relief
If Aroldis’ fastball ain’t snappin’.
Managing Expectations
by Hilary Barta
Does “Grandpa” emit secret sauce?
The magic to be dugout boss?
The moneyèd Ricketts
Must sell those Cubs tickets
So sentiment might not help Ross.
Let The Ricketts Go Instead
by Sid Yiddish
Let the Ricketts go instead, let the Ricketts go instead.
After all, who paid for all those players to play?
It wasn’t lower management
And it wasn’t the fans
It was the Ricketts. It was the Ricketts.
Crushing our hero, like one million protesting pickets, silencing our voices, like sleeping crickets
But in the end, the chiefs always order up the final commands
And so it shall be known that in the history books of this season’s end that the shadowy figures above Rickettsville will send
A big heave ho to our mighty Joe
Whoosh! And out the door he’s shoved
Into a witch’s coven he is gloved and burned and scattered in a fine powdery ash, like stale popcorn in a blinding snow
Can we just let it be like several crushed cans of Old Style beer?
And accept the fact of…
Wait ‘til next year.
Dead Arms Lead to Bending the Elbow
by James Finn Garner
One cause of the Cubs doom this year?
Joe: They should’ve been drinking more beer
‘Stead of video games.
Now I’m not naming names
But fans now imbibe Everclear.
Imperfect Pitch
by Hilary Barta
You lost ’cause your closer can’t close
And suffered some gut-wrenching blows
Your bullpen seemed rich
But baseball’s a bitch
Your chances now peanuts for crows.