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

You get it rolling in a decent direction Things come together and you make a connection Three or four starts have put you in good position You come Denver and it’s a full demolition Your curves don’t bend and then your sliders don’t bite. The hits start disappearing deep in the night A week or two it seemed you had it together You come to Denver and it’s hurricane weather You come to Denver and hold on to your hat Undressed like Charlie Brown by drives off the bat You come to Denver and your career’s on the line A dozen runs and soon you’ll drink turpentine You get it rolling in a decent direction You saw your flaws and then you made a correction You come to Denver and the scoreboard’s on fire You come to Denver and you want to retire

Shawn Green and Jason Bay Made the scene but couldn't play Corner outfield spots they filled Counting out the rallies killed Jason Bay said to Shawn Green "Six hunnert homers in between! But CitiField and also Shea Were places we two couldn't play" Jason, Shawn, both noble souls! But corner outfield lineup holes! They took a check straight to the bank They took the Mets straight to the tank! Shawn Green and Jason Bay Joined the Mets way past their day Not to worry, take a flyer We've got our eye upon Cuddyer.

Yo, he threw a hammy And Noah tore a lat A thousand pricks felled Travis Enough said ‘bout all that And Ray Ramirez took the heat These stories are not new But they fired Mister Met ‘Cuz he was working blue Harvey liked to goldbrick He’d drink and show up late And when he showed up not at all He got an escort to the gate Reyes sued for child support Your standard scandal stew But they fired Mister Met ‘Cuz he was working blue Seasons come and seasons go And most, they don’t work out Now and then, the stars align And we end a pennant drought But one thing's kept from year to year Be they glorious or fallow Our champ of joy and decency Was never crass nor callow Yes, some seasons have a happy face Or sweet, or old and grey Some seasons smell of fire Or resound like children’s play But this season wears a sickly masque Beneath a veil or two For they’ve fired Mister Met ‘Cuz he was working blue

John Cougar Lunchbucket wrote: applause for btf2 Thanks. MFS62 wrote: Is that a song parody? It's a poem. If you must apply a melody, dream up your own.

Me and {NAME REMOVED} Standing in a Sterling Suite Where the rich are so privileged just to wipe their feet Sweetheart, I'm not the man to give you this You know I'm not that wily Me and {NAME REMOVED} Me and {NAME REMOVED} Back in the productions room Where it all comes alive from a stone cold tomb How do I make the magic apple rise? I ask her kinda shyly Me and {NAME REMOVED} Yeah, {NAME REMOVED} on the Shea Bridge and she's walking with me Don't pass me over for some slick VIP I'm just a mere mortal 'neath Elysian skies But if you go from me now, there's no paradise Me and {NAME REMOVED} In the clubhouse now At the Hall of Fame, where the best take a bow Someone calls to her, she turns from me And I sneak out slyly Me and {NAME REMOVED}

good job staying up. I didn't make it. I don't know if this means I'm worn out, getting old, or simply a bad fan. No, that's great. There's something really sweet about nodding-off in the of a hopeful limbo of lemon-sugariness of a tied game in extra innings. The misery is in falling asleep down 7-1 and dispirted. It was upon nodding off during an extra inning game from the coast years ago that first got me writing on this site. I realized I woke up with the tingly excitement like the game was still going on and I was still in the midst of it. I logged on with no intention of posting and then this suddenly came out in one shot. Call Me Up in Metland Tuning in to a late west coast game It went to extra frames After midnight the game got tenser I love those kind of games I�m not as young as used to be, man I went and fell asleep I woke up on the shores of Metland My guide was Danny Heep Danny grinned under royal blue skies With puffy cumulous clouds He looked at me with his royal blue eyes And said that I should be proud For few mere mortals can walk in Metland The stars they must align As we stood there upon the beach strand I knew the moment was mine Climbing over the great Met Mountains Sailing over the wide Met Sea Tossing coins into blue Met fountains Danny Heep and me Lindsey Nelson was mayor of Metland Bob Murphy was his Chief Clerk Pete Flynn had shaped us a green horizon And Seaver wasn�t a jerk Mookie stole everything in Metland But then he gave it all back For crime was scarce under Chief Ralph Kiner Metlanders never knew lack We rode in Gil Hodges� golden trolley Each stop was named Willets Point �Danny, how do we know where to get off?� He told me that was the point �Yo la tengo� was code in Metland It meant both �hi� and �good-bye� When I realized we all spoke Stengelese I think I started to cry Climbing over the great Met Mountains Sailing over the wide Met Sea Tossing coins into blue Met fountains Danny Heep and me Met royalty, they were all around me In home whites with orange and blue They�d left behind every imperfection And they were handsome and true Sasser threw throw without double pumping In this Olympian sphere Pacella had the control of Buddha Matsui�s vision was clear We lumbered over Ventura Highway I waded through a Rheingold stream Doug Flynn strummed on a country guitar It only deepened my dream Ed Charles read me a mystic ballad As I sat at his feet Cream and Strawberries served by Darryl I ate and life was complete Climbing over the great Met Mountains Sailing over the wide Met Sea Tossing coins into blue Met fountains Danny Heep and me Danny talked some philosophy with me And we played us some catch But as we traded turns hitting fungoes I asked what strings were attached I guess I struck on the magic question Danny grinned as he spoke He told of Metland�s ephem�ral nature The Brigadoonian joke The land would fade as each game concluded Until the next game�s first pitch Mortals must leave 'fore the cosmic curtain It�s like someone throws a switch For Metland lives in the chance of each game It�s in the hope in your heart Since it ain�t over until it�s over The isle remained on the chart Climbing over the great Met Mountains Sailing over the wide Met Sea Tossing coins into blue Met fountains Danny Heep and me I knew that soon I would leave sweet Metland That I might never return I paid respects to their Queen Joan Payson Swapped jokes with Capra and Hearn I climbed into a magic top hat Dave Kingman set it afloat When I woke up, I was back in Kansas No sign of water or boat I wondered if I had dreamed the whole thing Been there with Gooden and Swan And if I tuned in to find the score out Would the island be gone? Went to bed with a foolish notion I�d give Metland a reprieve I�d leave the score for the morning paper 'Til then I gotta believe Climbing over the great Met Mountains Sailing over the wide Met Sea Tossing coins into blue Met fountains Danny Heep and me

Collin McHugh Sweet Collin McHugh He does the things The others won't do Starring in Flushing In Las Vegas too Some guy's an issue? Not Collin McHugh! You speak of mechanics? A weak follow through? No dropping arm angle For Collin McHugh Let Baseball Prospectus Say that they knew But few sang the praises Of Collin McHugh But Collin's not bitter He's no room for pride With his songwriting brother His craft-making bride He's their inspiration And how it shines through! Their work speaking volumes Of Collin McHugh So lament all ye Met fans The cry's nothing new The owner's a cheapass Your hopes you eschew Curse the veteran bumblers And the sad sacks still new But spare a kind word for Brave Collin McHugh For when ship's righted Oh when the worm's turned You quitters will come back From the past, we have learned And when hope burns brightest And the quest's almost through On the mound, hopes will fix on Good Collin McHugh It might be game seven It might be game six But I know you'll pay dearly For those post-season tix "I knew they could do it!" The quitters will mew "I bless his sweet slider" "GO, COLLIN McHUGH!!" And the when the last groundout Brings tears to your eyes And they douse him in liquor Underneath Gotham skies Your conscience will sting you As consciences do "Oh, why did I doubt you My Collin McHugh?"

We cheered for a Hawk A Goose and a Stork A Swan and a Robin All played for New York An old Cardenal A fictional Finch A Martin named Tom And a Krane in a pinch Wendell and Hook Make a Turk and a Jay But sadly the nest Is more empty today

O, Met fans of each nation O, Met fans of each race O, harken to my calling O, catch on to my case My argument is simple My reasoning�s no reach The Mets, they would be lost without Their Bisons in the breach 'The Mets, they will be lost this year' O, all the experts said 'The Mets could lose a hundred!' 'The Mets, they could be dead!' 'They�ll crumble like a cracker' 'They�ll wash up on the beach!' 'They�ll fold like paper when they throw Their Bisons in the breach' They opened up a winner But the sharks all circled round �Don�t fool yourselves, supporters!� Your centerfielder�s down! We know the ways of baseball So, listen while we teach! Nieuwenhius will not suffice --- A Bison in the breach� But Nieuenhuis could hit a bit And Nieuenhuis he could run He hung in there when lefties pitched His arm was no small gun �Shall I love him?� Mets fans asked �O, shall I eat a peach? And celebrate our winning with This Bison in the breach?' And when Cede�o pulled up Our plans, they had a wrench �No team can win!� the critics cried �Sans vet�rans on the bench!� The Mets, they called up Valdespin O, hear the critics preach! But cheer the walkoff homer from This Bison in the breach I sing of Jer�my Hefner A pitcher of mine heart His Met career, it got off to An inauspicious start �O, here it comes!� the haters cried �The pennant's out of reach!� He won the game and homered, my Sweet Bison in the breach O, Bay and then Tejada Mike Pelfrey and Josh Thole Some Mets have gone down hurting Some stat lines are too lowly �Ike Davis has the fever!� �Acosta sucks!� they screech Then Alderson, he calmly plugs A Bison in the breach I sing now of Rottino Of Carson, do I cry Confuse him not with Johnson Another Rob I spy And hail Miguel Batista I have some words for each Saluting those about to rock As Bisons in the breach Of all the Bison players That yet have had their day Mike Baxter has stood tallest (Tho� here since op�ning day) To Johan, he�s a hero That word�s no over-reach The patron saint of Buff�lomen All Bisons in the breach I pray now for Tejada For Pelfrey, do I mourn For all the Mets who have withstood Such pain and bitter scorn I pray for any reader who�s Endured my lengthy speech To praise the fallen and to hail The Bisons in the Breach So come, ye Mets believers to The park and see the light My heart of hearts exhorts me E�en in the darkest night All summer round your TV screens Your rad�yos at the beach Acclaim your bold Met warriors And Bisons in the breach

Ike Davis's bat O brutalest weight How frigid you have been this year Your splinters hold Your master's fate Your final chance is now, I fear Ike Davis's bat O sceptre of kings How dimly glows your fire these times The power nests In your bold swings To lift our hearts, to raise our rimes Ike Davis's bat Shillelagh unscarred Your king now looks to exile He's kept you honed And freshly tarred That you might make his people smile