Bunt the First Two

Front-Row Amy sat across from me Scorebook on her lap Rain or sun or bitter cold She never give a crap Eighty-one times every year Scoring with her pencil Turning pages, turning heads Her tank top is so tensile One time she sneezed and missed a play And asked me "Hit or error?" I was so stunned to hear her speak I froze in holy terror I quick-reviewed what I just saw "I think it was a double But I don't want to steer you wrong I'd hate to cause you trouble" "For me, I'm just a Brewer fan But you, you're Front-Row Amy And if I leave you misinformed The whole wide world would blame me" She smiled and marked the double down A new light fell upon me I breathed in me a new world's air A world I thought beyond me For few remember what goes down Each day is soon forgotten We are but pawns in others' games And others' games are rotten The truth resides in but one place Recorded for all ages The lap of that big-bosomed gal Her scorebook's yellowed pages All my wretched life's cruel pains My sorrows and my trouble Blessed with meaning, truth, and hope When Amy marked that double

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose one with my bats in a rut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If my starter throws cutters that don't seem to cut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose two if my manager's crazy ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If my outfield is slow or my infeld is lazy ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose three with my third base coach drinking ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If my catcher is hurt and my depth chart is shrinking ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose four if my bullpen is wild ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If my shortstop's not here 'cuz his wife had a child ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If we touch down with jet lag, you bet I'll lose five ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Everyone's sluggish and just won't revive ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose six just relying on rookies‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ With my lefty reliever behind with his bookies ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Loss seven could come in a thick Denver blizzard ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Or in Phoenix, my set-up guy's bit by a lizard ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I'll lose eight when angst, langor, or Weltschmerz sets in ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ When ennui robs us of all will to win ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I can lose nine from the things I don't know ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Screwed by a trade we made two years ago ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But ten in row? Fuck it, something is up ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Someone said "Sabotage?" and another said "Yup!" ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ELEVEN full games without any wins? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Somewhere a voodoo doll's bursting with pins ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ When a streak hits 11, things get suspicious ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Like my claims that I'm trying are deeply fictitious ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Like I want to be fired to collect on insurance ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Like I get a sick thrill as I try fans' endurance ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Eleven-game streaks are hard to explain ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But a joy, if like me, you have learned to love pain

Benjamin Grimm wrote: Stick with Stanek! His fastball's VOLCANIC!!

=G-Fafif post_id=151520 time=1712852092 user_id=55] Rain in the sky, tarp on the field

Imanga, Manaea, and Ryu Imanga, Maanea, and Ryu Philosophical throwa Son of Somoa And Toronto lefthander in blue I'd dance a conga if we got Imanga Who has spent his career in Nippon He gives up fly balls That can reach shallow walls So the Yanks and the Phils have moved on But if he can be crafty If the ballpark ain't drafty And the league hasn't figured him out And the Mets make him wealthy We'll pray he stays healthy And trust that we know how to scout I know Sean Manaea A career West Coast playa Spent last year with the Giants I thinks But alas San Francisco Is deader than disco The players all think that it stinks With his long flowing locks He no-hit the Red Sox And that is no easy assignment He's Samoan, not short But 6'5", I report May his spine never lose its alignment Our third guy's Korean And a fine human bein' Tho' his physique is described as quite hefty From Korea's bright shores Only Park has won more Games than this world famous lefty But his big bag of tricks Is now age thirty-six And by opening day, thirty seven I'd explode into flames If he won but ten games And if he wins fifteen, I'm in Heaven Imanga, Manaea, and Ryu Imanga, Maanea, and Ryu The Pool now discusses Minuses, pluses Of three lefties we all barely knew

Johnny Lunchbucket wrote: Rodon, Bassitt and Senga. 　　Rodon and Bassitt and Senga 　　The Mets signed all three and cried ‘Venga!' 　　deGrom had defected 　　The team redirected 　　Then collapsed like a tower of Jenga

　I'll always remember and care 　I promise I'll stay quite aware 　Ruf may rear back and hack 　But forget Davis and Zwack? 　T'would be heartless and cold and unfair 　A betrayal unthinkable 　Of faith thought unsinkable 　A quaff most undrinkable 　I promise I'll never go there

These are sweetest of sounds for the Mets Francisco to Luis to Dom A trio of gloves that suppress Marlin threats Francisco to Luis to Dom Franciso fields balls hit way to his right Luis relays them more quickly than light Dominic stretches and ump cries "Good night!" Francisco to Luis to Dom

　Maybin and Lee and McKinney 　The outfield depth's gotten real thinny 　Maybin looks through 　McKinney's brand new 　And Lee's kinda green and real skinny 　　Martinez's springtime collision 　　I saw it on my television 　　He crashed with the umpy 　　Who was graceless and dumpy 　　To go with his terrible vision 　Almora crashed into a fence 　Everyone got really tense 　A shoulder contusion 　Was the doctor's conclusion 　The price of aggressive defense. 　　McNeil, he just blew out his hammy 　　He was running and running … then WHAMMY! 　　Some fan out for wins 　　Started sticking his pins 　　In a voodoo doll down in Miami 　Conforto's cruel fate was sealed next 　My wife, she informed me by text 　With McNeil's hammy spent 　Michael's soon went 　Then she added, “I think your team's hexed!” 　　But hey, man, we still had Pillar 　　And he was starting to hit like a star 　　Then a pitch to the face 　　And blood filled the place 　　Looked like he was a hit by a car 　But Johneshwy, he learned not his lesson 　“Be careful!” his coaches were stressin' 　But he chased a ball 　Smashed into the wall 　For now, his career's not progressin' 　　So it's Maybin, McKinney, and Lee 　　Our fate's in the hands of these three 　　We can win every every contest! 　　Each night, a new conquest! 　　If we can only strike out twenty-three!

　　First Jacob, then Marcus 　　Then masks, umbrellas, 'n' parkas

　　I'm not as creepy as Mickey 　　I'm not a pyro like Vince 　　I don't chase teenagers like Paulie 　　('Cept in high school, but I swear I ain't since) 　　I'm not prone to bar fights like Darling 　　I don't terrorize partners like Straw 　　My fingers ain't sticky like Charlie's 　　I haven't Burgos' hist'ry with the law 　　I don't pull it out in public like Spencer 　　And pee 'til I've emptied my whole tank 　　I don't wreck my car, wasted like Langill 　　Babe, I'm just try'n' to be frank 　　When you look at the scum that's around us 　　I'm not as squeaky clean as is Wright 　　But I'm not as creepy as Mickey 　　And that helps me to sleep through the night

I am a cub reporter for The White Plains Journal-News. First road trip with the Mets! I even shined my shoes! Chicago got a Game-One rout. The Mets took Two and Three. If they could steal the series, juicy angles I could see! And for seven innings, I thought that would transpire But there in inning eight, no Cubs could Seth Lugo retire I got my post-game notes and then I left to write a quickie But then I set the night on fire, said “See you later Mickey!” You'd think I'd told him “Suck a dick,” the way that he reacted. The words that sprung forth from his throat would have to be redacted. I heard a dozen f-bombs, and a “**********,” an “ass.” I ran like hell (though saw him later on at Sunday Mass). * * * My name is Morgan Maynard. I'm a staff writer for Elle. We rarely cover baseball, but I said, “Oh, what the Hell?” The Mets, they had a woman who announced on the PA — A minor female breakthrough, and we thought there'd be some play. I spoke with players, management, groundskeepers, ushers, fans. The manager, he met the press all huddled ‘neath the stands. I got a tossed-off quote, and said, “Hey Mickey, catch you later.” Jesus Christ, he blew his stack, and I the instigator. “What the fucking fucking FUCK is THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!!” He screamed and jumped, went for my throat, 'til Regan jumped between. “So this is baseball?” I then thought, and bid a fast retreat. But Mickey and his foul mouth, pursued me down the street. * * * My name is Juan, and I write sports reports for El Diario. You'd only know my stuff if you reside within the barrio. But I work hard and think I've earned respect along the way. In Spanish and in English, I ask players ‘bout their day. But I, this weekend, still don't understand quite what went down. Everyone was tense as I asked questions all around. Said, “Hola, Mick, we've met before — that junket in Havana!” Things were copacetic 'til I said, “Hasta mañana!” He tore his shirt, he punched his chest, he screamed “HIJO DE PUTA!” “El MARINCÓN!” he fired at me while smashing my computa. As Jason Vargas held me down, Mickey beat me silly. I spat some teeth, resolving to not join the Mets in Philly. And then that night I nursed my wounds down in the hotel bar, I saw a shellshocked chick from Ellle knock back her third Lone Star. A cub reporter sat beside, and he just threw down shots. I scooched up there right next to them and ordered tater tots “Let me guess,” I said to them, “It's Mickey Callaway.” The chick said “Did you know that he's been banned from JFK? The guy — he's just gone nuts since Céspedes fell off the horse He broke this cub reporter's nose and never showed remorse!” All agreed the weird part was the words that did provoke him. And after seven rounds, we swore we'd wake him up and choke him. Instead we drank to Mick's red ass, and never asked him why The fuck he stuck with Lugo and he hung him out to dry.

These are the saddest of possible words A Dodger game without Vin Scully A pair of announcers whose game's for the birds A Dodger game without Vin Scully A baritone boob and a boring ex-jock The most sublime broadcast now worst on the block I'm not sure my heart can survive such a shock A Dodger game without Vin Scully

I got a new kidney from Cro' Healthy but loaded with blow Now I piss like Niag'ra I don't need Viagra And my climax is called The Big O

Well, some Mets take to brawling And some Mets take to the blow Some Mets chase all the cameras Always making a big show And some Mets will trash an airplane Or kill a girlfriend's cat Folks think that they're all assholes But I'm a bigger 'hole than that Some Mets will claim they're blackballed Or benched because of race Some want to slug Tom Niedenfuer Or Davis in the face Some Mets tear up Cooters And knock a Houston cop out flat Folks say the Mets are assholes But I'm a bigger 'hole than that 　I'm a showboat defender 　On an alcohol bender 　I'm laden down with gambling debts 　My habits, disgusting 　My cock, always thrusting 　And I think that I'm the face of the Mets 　I dive when I don't haveta 　I didn't vote for NAFTA 　I wrap my car around a pole 　My drugs give me a chubby 　I buy 'em from the clubby 　I'm a genuine five-tool HOLE! Some Mets will grow a mullet But none more douchier than me Some Mets will cheat with PEDs But I sell untainted pee I'd be better with Phillies Getting jacked until I'm fat 'Cuz if you think these Mets are assholes Man, I'm a bigger 'hole than that