Odes to Our Opening Day Roster

[Bunt the First Two]

Would you send these brave men into battle without tribute?! I would think not! And yet, I see here ambiguity persisting about the pronunciation of our rookie star! Are we not poets?!

So get your jive on and scribble your rousing anthem in praise of... Pedro Beato Carlos Beltran Blaine Boyer Taylor Buchholz Tim Byrdak Chris Capuano D.J. Carrasco Ike Davis R.A. Dickey Lucas Duda Brad Emaus Daniel Murphy Scott Hairston Willie Harris Chin-lung Hu Mike Nickeas Jon Niese Angel Pagan Bobby Parnell Mike Pelfrey Jose Reyes Francisco Rodriguez Josh Thole David Wright Chris Young. Such men as these deserve no less.

It's easy. And I'll begin.

Ode to Pedro Beato

Beato! Beato!
You ask me what he's gotto?
Stuff that's making Pujols flail
Like Frank Catalanotto

Beato! Beato!
Girls praying at the grotto
"Don't let my daddy face him, Lord
'Cuz batters can't do squatto"

He's warming in the bullpen
He's not there to grow toma(h)to
Echoes sound when he warms up
"Beato! -ato! -ato!"

Beato! Beato!
The Mets have won the Lotto
Just don't pronounce his last name wrong
Our hero's called "Bay-AH-to!"

[Bunt the First Two]

Ode to Chris Young

Through Princeton's halls, his name is sung
The smartest Met of all: Chris Young

To meet the man, I climb a rung
The tallest Met of all: Chris Young

The pitches from his awesome frame
The wisdom from his tongue
Of diamond and of hardwood fame
The man they call Chris Young

Of Jackie's fight, of freedom sprung
The thesis of our Met: Chris Young

Two years of pain, the elbow stung
The burden of our Met: Chris Young

Let foes all cry before the name
Let pennants soon be hung
The master of the scoreless frame
The man they call Chris Young

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

Last night a DJ saved my mind!

We had two men on, Terry waved the baton, and in jogged he
Pelf had grown unsteady, requiring a salve
Hey, 77's got a logo on his calf!
Just one well-placed ball, the batter looked small, and up popped he

Last night a DJ saved my behind!

Our Brave starter was scratched, so we needed a dash of Carrasco
Look at the way his forkball bends
McCann whiffs, Chipper shits his Depends
The slider's flight makes with more bite than a spicy churrasco

Last night a DJ saved my game!

His weird forearm dangles, make angles almost Pythagorean
Snuffing out a burgeoning rally
Putting "shh" in old "Ashburn Alley"
Turn Citzens' Bank into the Broad Street Hit Mausoleum

Last night a DJ saved my life!

From Leach to D-Oliver, we like a solider swingman
So here's hoping you, dear mound doctor
Make your fortune like Kuo and not Proctor
Turning latter-day home run king into badder-day Kingman

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

On a foggy, dense night in the autumn of ol' 86
A night that in easterly precincts was pregnant with meaning
Birthed a strapping young pup who fractured the air with his kicks
And whose powerful whip of an arm was most sinis'trly leaning

Yes, he was born in Lima
But even that young, he seem'd a
Ornery Boy of Defiance

Straight from schoolbooks, his strong left arm led to a fat contract
And he was pressed into service by a far-off urbanite group
As his frame stretched tighter, his fastball grew tricky, in fact
And his breaking ball started to break with a more cruel swoop

Yes, he retired opposing bat-fiends
From St. Lucie to sweet New Orleans
This hatchet-nosed Boy of Defiance

After a fall taste, he stepped in for Ol' Brokedown Ollie
Tearing through those Bucs and Cards like an intemp'rate gambler
Then stretching to cover at first proved the gravest of folly
As he tore through his tendon like an ill-stepping rambler

Yes, he may have been majorly set back
But he'd sure as hell majorly get back
To HIS mound, the Boy of Defiance

Healed, he impressed in the spring of 'ten with dips and swerves
And the boss thought him ready to swipe major-league hitters' hits
Then on one crisp June night, he rained cutters and curves
The most litigious of altar boys never gave Padres such fits

Yes, he slowed quite a bit in the fall
But still you can see, overall
He proved strong, did this Boy of Defiance

Now he throws in the shadows, no longer do doctors eye him
To see if his repair-ed arm will shudder or twitch
The coaches, oh, man, do they know, and they do buy him
When he says with a wrinkle of nose, "Sir, I'm ready to pitch."

Yes, he'll take a tight game in his hands
Without drip increase from his sweat glands
And still answer a call from the stands--
A silly prank yell from the fans--
With a calm, steady tone and the voice of a man
"Hawkman? No, Ma'am.
I'm the Man from Defiance."

Edited March 31, 2011 by Guest

[Guest Edgy DC]

LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr wrote: Last night a DJ saved my mind! We had two men on, Terry waved the baton, and in jogged he Pelf had grown unsteady, requiring a salve Hey, 77's got a logo on his calf! Just one well-placed ball, the batter looked small, and up popped he Last night a DJ saved my behind! Our Brave starter was scratched, so we needed a dash of Carrasco Look at the way his forkball bends McCann whiffs, Chipper shits his Depends The slider's flight makes with more bite than a spicy churrasco Last night a DJ saved my game! His weird forearm dangles, make angles almost Pythagorean Snuffing out a burgeoning rally Putting "shh" in old "Ashburn Alley" Turn Citzens' Bank into the Broad Street Hit Mausoleum Last night a DJ saved my life! From Leach to D-Oliver, we like a solider swingman So here's hoping you, dear mound doctor Make your fortune like Kuo and not Proctor Turning latter-day home run king into badder-day Kingman

Going for the old ABBA scheme. Nice. Very Shakespearean.

[Guest Edgy DC]

The most litigious of altar boys never gave Padres such fits

And... print.

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

Stank you very much.

EEK!

so much depends
upon

a redhead rule five
pick

blessed with plate
selectivity

beside the ike
davis

[ashie62]

This thread reeks of the MFY's and gayness.

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

MFYs? I don't get it. And yes, Opening Day is a time to be gay. Oh, you mean homosexual. In a bad way.

Why don't you just say "fag," then? It gets your meaning across clearer. Sorta. 'Cause I still have no idea what you mean.

[Guest Edgy DC]

Ten thousand miles away from home, he does all he can do
Yet few have come for cheering at the play of Chin-lung Hu
Amid the talk of ope'ning day, of Pelfrey, Wright, and 'Pon
It's easy here to overlook the small man from Taiwan

Oh, forgive them if they're cynical, for Mets fans can be thus
"Nothing 'gainst the Asians, but they tend to suck for us"
They half expect in three weeks time, he'll play for Buffalo
Hernandez will be swapped for him, 'cuz that's how these things go

But in the New York press corps is an Asian Times reporter
She's comes to all the briefings and photographers escort her
She's quiet and she's wide-eyed, and folks hardly know she's there
Then snicker when she asks them, "Any Asian Mets this year?"

How cruelly dismissed is our reporter from the Times
As if her wish for Asian Mets was great among all crimes
How cruelly dismissed is our new shortstop from Taiwan
As if all backup infield guys by should only be named 'Juan'

Lost 'neath the stadium he wanders, "Mets" scrawled cross his chest
Our reporter comes the other way, her press pass on her breast
If e'er a song of joy was writ by Hammerstein and Rogers
Such did fill her when she spied the new guy from the Dodgers

"Who?" our journalist then asked, in Mandarin Chinese
("Who have the gods sent to me now in hours such as these?")
"My name is Hu," was his reply, "I thought I was alone"
"But here I look upon the kindest face I've ever known"

"So you're a Met!" she almost cried, but caught herself and blushed
It was too late, and Chin-Lung's face, it also grew quite flushed
"Long have I hoped to see you; Igarashi gives me pause"
"I've sought a Met that might at last advance the Asian cause"

"Young lady," Hu said, "I know not of the cause that you promote"
"But I pray that the bat I swing will cause your hopes to float"
"For never did I play for such a heart as I behold"
"Never did I write" she said, "of knights in armour gold"

And when his breath returned to him, he asked if she would dine
"Both this night, and the next" she said, "and ever down the line"
"If you would be my champion, I'll be your true beilever"
"But tonight I sit" he said (for he could not deceive her)

"But soon the Mets will call and find my bat has found new strength"
"My feet have found new swiftness and my throws have found new length"
"And soon this league will fall before my skills and my desire"
"And soon this league will know of all the passion you inspire"

Their hands they touched; they parted there in that Miami tunnel
He attacked the pre-game drills with all the focus of a funnel
But sit, he did; the manager called not his name nor number
Hu wondered, was she but a dream born in some pre-game slumber

And as the ballpark's lights went out, he dressed in lonely sorrow
"Will it be as always when I sit again tomorrow?"
The first to come and last to leave the park once called Joe Robbie
But then he saw her silhouette across the hotel lobby

"We had a date," she said, "I have been waiting since the game"
"I'm just a man," he spake in shame; "They scarcely know my name"
She whispered then again those words; he knew he'd never leave her
"If you would be my champion, I'll be your true beilever"

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

Something for the ladies?

(To be fair, "they" do kinda suck for us.)

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

(With apologies to Maya Angelou.)

Power pitchers wonder, what's my game?
I'm not lithe or built to Sabathia's frame
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm "spitting game."
(As the young people say, when hearts they enflame)
I say,
It's in the hang of my arm
The sneer of my lips,
The warmth of my charm,
The soft fingertips.
I'm a Dickey
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Dickey,
That's me.

I walk onto a mound
Just like the Marlb'ro Man,
In front of 40,000 screaming fans.
And to a man, man,
The hitters fan or
Fall down on their cans.
Then the Dans and Johans buzz around me,
Blue and orange honey bees.
I say,
It's my beard (like a bear),
My ball's flutter (like birds),
My sounding, resounding
Mul-ti-syl-la-bic words.
I'm a Dickey
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Dickey,
That's me.

Mets fans wander, wonder
What they see in me.
They rhyme, talk shop
They clip and Photoshop
My head on a Simpsons body.
When I throw for you, though,
It's fairly easy to see.
I say,
It's my knuckler, sucker
That puts pitch in your tent,
The bad mothermother,
The un-ligament.
I'm a Dickey
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Dickey,
That's me.

Now you understand
Why I make you burst with glee.
It's not cash, wild panache
Or flashing 93.
When you see me, see
You really see thee, see?
I say,
It's in the twist of my wrist,
The turn of my phrase,
The prospect that I
Might not HAVE a decline phase.
'Cause I'm a Dickey
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Dickey,
That's me.

[Guest Edgy DC]

Ashie62 wrote: This thread reeks of the MFY's and gayness.

I thought I was at least bi-sexual.

Come on, the tragedy is that we're all in one closet or another. Open your sweet Metly heart and re-read. There's some good work here.

[Guest John Cougar Lunchbucket]

It's great, totally in another league from what I can contribute.

[ashie62]

LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr wrote: MFYs? I don't get it. And yes, Opening Day is a time to be gay. Oh, you mean homosexual. In a bad way. Why don't you just say "fag," then? It gets your meaning across clearer. Sorta. 'Cause I still have no idea what you mean.

I wish thinking of the bleacher creatures at MFY. Gay has be used many many times in our threads, Not that there is anything wrong with it...

Edited March 31, 2011 by Guest

[Fman99]

A little gayness never hurt anyone. Except maybe in their mouths and/or assholes.

[Vic Sage]

Stopping By Citifield on Snowy Afternoon

Whose team this is I think I know,
His total worth is less now though.
He will not see me stopping there,
So long as Fred is such a `mo.

My little kids think i'm unfair
To deprive them so of Metly fare
They don't get why, to so forsake
Our storied Mets, beyond compare.

They want their dogs and shake shack shake
And so ask if there is some mistake.
My shuttered eyes can only weep
Of Madoff's scheme... that fraud, that fake.

My team's fate is dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And so we go, despite the creeps,
And so we go, while Citi sleeps.

[Theoldmole]

How do you pronounce Nickeas?

[Guest Edgy DC]

Ni-KAY-us.

[Theoldmole]

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM ST. LUCIE TO CITI FIELD

They sprang to the infield, Ike Davis and more;
With Reyes and Emaus and Wright, there were four;
And Murphy and Hu, if one faltered his task,
While Thole, Josh Thole, stood back of the mask;
No Ronny Paulino, but that won't delay us,
Our catching reserve's in the hands of Nickeas.

And then to the outfield, with no Jason Bay,
But he's to return�if not April, then May;
So in left Willie Harris, a welcome intruder,
And a promising homegrown, our own Lucas Duda;
No need for contention�they'll both keep the pace,
As they bring the good news of our Mets in first place.

A center field stalwart when last year began,
Now new-brimming with health, Mr. Right Field Beltran;
At the far reach of center, and no longer strange'll
Be one with the wingspan and speed of an Angel;
If we've need of a backup, we're fortunate there's one
Who'll hit the ball hard, and his surname is Hairston.

As spring training ends, and the season draws near,
Who stands 'stride the mound? Why, that vision is clear:
He's tall as a steeple, and sound as a belfry,
Right now he's our ace � you remember Mike Pelfrey.
With a fastball like lightning all covered with grease,
Coming into his own, Mr. Jonathan Niese;

And his knuckleball may not go plateward so quickly,
But its flutter will make batters mutter, �Damn Dickey!�
And if that's not enough, let them reckon with this,
We have two pitchers more, both new, both named Chris,
But the one for the other will ne'er be mistook,
Because one is from Princeton, the other from Duke.

As we enter the fray, no ace named Santana,
Maybe May, June, July � maybe even manana.
He may come back hot, and he may come back colder--
Depends on the scalpels that probed in his shoulder.
But finally, our venture needs the services of men
Who'll come streaming to the rescue, like bulls out of pen.

Now Bucholz and Beato are two who've got our back,
Carrasco and Blane Boyer, and even Tim Byrdak,
Parnell (and maybe Isringhausen), horses brightly shod.
All leading to the closing note, the man they call K-Rod.
And though some may look in vain for wit or wisdom in this ditty,
They still must stand a glass for he who brought the news to Citi.

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

A worried old man grips a rail
As he watches that last cutter's contrail
Bobby already behind him, the scowlin' front of him burns
Got white hair, from here to fore
Watching this'll only give him more
The arms and legs get whirling, then his stomach churns

Standing on the dugout steps with nothing else to choose
But he uses this pill too much, and all hell will break loose

First a mean change-up, and the batter froze
Then a one-out walk, and a clamor rose
The light was on for a while, but now... sorry, we're closed

This place used to feel like home to me
I�m in the wrong town, got no family
Just a lady I used to love, our kids, and her old man too
Gonna take dancing lessons, dance to forget
Try somethin' different, get my feet wet
Gotta do something, t'get my mind off the hiss and the boo

People pay to yell strange things at you
"Hey, I'm 60, why don't you punch ME too!"

My feet are aching from the path I chose
Maybe I should text her a "Sorry" rose
My ears they used to be open, now... sorry, we're closed

I hurt pretty easy, I just don�t show it
This replica Dykstra got some bruises below it
You don't watch Ayala for a month without growing some scars
Used to root for Raj, yell for Jess from the stands
Clapped for Randall K so hard, it chapped my hands
Now, the endgame comes, and my eye's seein' stars

He can whiff dozens of the NL's best
Still, I look at his shirt, and all I see is vest

Time it was, the ninth came, and I rose
Without another beer or another dose
My eyes used to be open; now, sorry... we're closed