The 17th Out of Perfection

by James Motz

Matt Cain reached deep, history on his back.
The fastball felt good, he had plenty of snap.

Play of the year was still four outs away
From Gregor Blanco: the next Wille Mays.

The gloves were red hot, there can be no doubt
But more was required to get THIS man out

Sixteen had stood in, each one had got sat.
Till Snyder stepped up, and with his big bat

He made Matty wince, that ball was well struck
Gonna land 10 deep, fans are out of luck.

Deep to left, so long to their perfection
Another “almost” in this game of reflection.

Melky kept running, he would not give in
The ball going out,
.    out,
.       out

…till the WIND

Just hauled that ball back, bent back to the wall
And Melky, he leaps! Spins! Stabs at the ball!

And back on the mound, Cain raises his fist,
Toes the rubber, sets. Ten more men to get.

James Motz has maintained his Michigan sports roots despite being exiled to Twin-infested Minnesota, where he stealthily paints Olde English D’s on ice shanties. His personal mission is to make baseball verse so ingrained in our culture that Joe Buck will call games in iambic pentameter.


Published in History, Houston Astros, Pure doggerel, San Francisco Giants | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

The 17th Out of Perfection: 1 Comment

  1. Hilary Barta wrote,

    Sweet.

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