Sonnet for Overly Creative Use of the Injured List

by Kevin Canfield

New York Mets under investigation,
For supposedly stashing fit players
On the injured list (read: paid vacation);
Manfred’s sleuths don Sherlock-style deerslayers.

A major transgression? A petty crime?
An attempt to deprive a neophyte
Of valuable big-league service time?
Was the man’s groin pulled or just kind of tight?

Team owner Steve Cohen, hedge fund tycoon,
Ran afoul of the feds, paid immense fines;
To diehards, he’s promised the stars and moon,
But this fall, Mets news is outside the lines.

To a longtime fan, it’s a small misdeed,
Far worse is somehow blowing every lead.

 

Too Swoon

by Michael X. Ferraro

Are you sinking in the quickstandings?
Does your bullpen perform crash-landings?
Were you chattering all through the summer,
yet now only muttering “bummer”?

Have bad hops invaded your dreams
As you wilt against much lesser teams?
Do your screamers hook foul or find leather?
Is your clean-up man under the weather?

Did you run yourself out of an inning?
Is your manager’s hairline thinning?
Does that magic number refuse to dwindle?
Can your champagne dreams even fill a thimble?

It seemed like a season you’d remember—
But then came the chill winds of September.

 

Shakespearean Baseball Sonnet #15

by Michael Ceraolo

When I consider every game that’s played
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
No matter where such moment is displayed,
No matter the media who comment,
And I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered or jeered under any and all skies,
Vaunt their youthful sap, only to decrease,
Eventually left with mere memories.
Try not to think of this inconstant stay
Of vigor with less than complete delight,
Though wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Forget the war with Time we all must lose,
And make lasting your fame from today’s news.

 

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.

 

The Natural (1984)

by Bob McKenty

Who is this hoary rookie who excites
Fans’ hopes, who in midseason gets the call
To play for the beleaguered New York Knights,
And knocks the cover (really!) off the ball?
But obstacles present themselves, and fast:
Seductress; unjust judge; a hitting rut;
A pundit who’d expose Roy’s seamy past;
A silver bullet lodging in his gut.
Hobbes, hobbled, breaks his bat (his only one—
In splinters). Bobby “picks a winner” out.
Inspired by Iris and (surprise!) their son,
Roy hits the arc lights with his winning clout—
Anachronistic ending, for I’ll bet
Night baseball hadn’t been invented yet.