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UCL Dialogue & Anagram

by Rajesh C. Oza

Shohei: How many years did you pitch?
Tommy: 26.
Shohei: How many after Tommy John surgery?
Tommy: Lucky 13.

Shohei: How many career home runs?
Tommy: 5.
Shohei: Oh. 166 less than me.
Tommy: And counting.

Shohei: I’m trying to unscramble my right arm.
Tommy: My left arm felt like it flew out to right field.
Shohei: Any advice?
Tommy: Dr. Frank Jobe said, “Replace the UCL.”

Shohei: Replace what?
Tommy: Elbow ligament with forearm tendon.
Tommy: Low odds of successful reconstruction.
Shohei: Let’s re-scramble.

Tommy: Ulnar.
Shohei: Lunar.
Tommy: What?
Shohei: Playing both ways was a moon shot!

Tommy: Collateral.
Shohei: LA call: “Tore.”
Tommy: Come again?
Shohei: Angels doc calls it a torn UCL!

Tommy: Ligament.
Shohei: Gilt amen.
Tommy: As in gold?
Shohei: Yes, amen to all the gold forsaken!

 

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The Monster Eats Tonight

by Michael X. Ferraro

Been battered by Boggs and peppered by Pudge.
Dented by Dustin and jarred by A. Judge.
Pounded by Papi and tattooed by ‘Tek.
They call me the Monster, but I ain’t no Shrek.

For 89 years I’ve endured much abuse.
From a diet of line drives, my screws are all loose.
Remodeled by Ripken, mangled by Manny.
Yaz played my caroms, but then spanked my fanny.

My favorite New England season? Winter!
(That’s when I laid low from that Splendid Splinter.)
Was walloped by Winfield, rattled by Rice.
Killebrew concussed me, not once but twice.

Two decades ago, they put seats on my head!
(“Stop playing the martyr,” my therapist said.)

So tall that I fall prey to mid-section shots,
from Boomers and Deweys, to Mookies and Trots.
Some were mere scrapes, yet others… keelhaulings.
But the name I loathe most has got to be “Rawlings.”

Smirky baseballs, too big for their britches,
marking me up with horsehide and stitches.
Well, karma’s a bitch and revenge soothes the soul—
last week against KC, I swallowed one whole.

Do not shrug me off as some iconic feature;
I am a mean, green, most gluttonous creature.
Pay heed, Fenway faithful, the beast’s been unleashed.
The warning track knows that quite soon … I … SHALL … FEAST!


Michael X. Ferraro was the sports editor of Boston University’s award-winning Daily Free Press, which enabled him to ponder the Green Monster on the Fenway grass with the likes of Sam Horn, Marty Barrett, Sparky Anderson, Jim Walewander and Lee Smith. More recently, he is the author of Circus Catch, a satirical sports novel set in the golden age of American Cheating.

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Braves 5, Yankees … Zip

by Stephen Jones

Yes, the Braves right now
Are the best team in baseball,
And yes, the Yankees are riding
An historic implosion this season,
And yes [painfully, so painfully
If you’re a Yankee fan],
The three “games” were ugly.

But despite the doom and gloom,
There was a silver lining —
Michael Kay calling the game,
And David Cone and Paul O’Neil
Adding insightful, humorous
Commentary. The trio made this
Downward Yankees’ slide palatable.

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Sonnet for Late Innings

by Kevin Canfield

In the nineteen seventies, relievers
Climbed to an elevated echelon
Heat throwers and inventive deceivers
Their names formed a wholly new lexicon

Goose, Tug, the Mad Hungarian, Sparky
Esteemed, oft-mustachioed game-enders
The vanguard of bullpen hierarchy
Chucking sliders, heaters, splitters, benders

Starting in ’76, an award—
Sponsored by Rolaids, ace heartburn stopper—
Ensured they were never again ignored
The trophy? A gold firefighter’s topper

Check out pics of the era’s top savers
Sideburns, beards, goatees—infrequent shavers

Kevin Canfield is a Mets fan who has canceled cable until football season. His work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post and other publications.