The creation
and implementation
of a system of relegation
would only be a temptation
after a long period of frustration
without a single so-called abberation
getting a World Series celebration,
and would only come as an act of desperation
due to serious franchise value hyperdeflation,
in combination
with inebriation.
Though two-headedness has its charms,
This really should raise some alarms.
If catchers see double
It could cause some trouble
Unless they have added forearms.
“Don’t trust this dishonest old man.
That’s not how it really began.
His story’s a con.
All I did,” said Livan,
“Was tell him, ‘Don’t call me Livann.'”
I had a short exchange
With ESPN’s Rob Neyer
Which led me to arrange
A song that it inspired.
Download the song:
Ah, Mister Home Run, Mark McGwire!
A guy that I really admire.
For back when he played,
He mastered his trade,
And then he knew how to retire.
I’d like to see you spend a week
Trying to learn how to speak
Exactly like Peter
And then hold your meter,
(Like Wakefield, then Nen), and technique.
The well-designed Astro, Geoff Blum,
Shouldn’t make Houston fans glum,
But Julio Lugo?
Worth less than a Yugo:
His engine just lacks a good hum.
If Astros fans watching Jeff Kent
See a throwing arm erringly bent
Forcing Jeff Bagwell
To have to tag well,
They’ll wonder where Biggio went.
The Padres without injured Trevor
Have likely no chance whatsoever.
Without a clear heir,
They don’t have a prayer,
Though I guess you should never say never.
Our mission: to explore the perfect swing,
The easy uppercut, the solid sound,
The bat directed smoothly to the ground,
The skyward peek to see what’s taking wing.
The ball is launched, and soon our eyes project
The missile’s life ahead, its quick ascent,
Its long, lingering peak, the slow descent
From grand success to accomplished respect.
But suddenly, an unexpected hand
Just reaches up and catches us off guard,
Abruptly snatching down our visions, hard:
Our dreams don’t always end the way we planned.
We rage at being victims of deceit,
Misled by expectations; this foul theft
Aborts our lofty dreams, and all that’s left
Is the unbearable arc, incomplete.
What Pappas is saying–don’t fret it.
It’s clear that this guy doesn’t get it.
His logic won’t follow;
His argument’s hollow;
Even if I haven’t read it.
Should Pete Rose get into the Hall?
That’s the oldest story of all.
Didn’t Adam and Eve
For good have to leave
Their Eden after the Fall?
Bud Selig’s homilies on baseball anomalies
were thought to be humbugs, but now we learn some drugs
provide the ability to defy probability.
The players who take them find that these make them
break laws of statistics. But criminalistics
now can reveal who’s been unreal
in taking success to unlikely excess.
The very first cheater we found was Kirk Rueter.
The suspicions begin with how he can win
with just 3 Ks per nine, which should be a sign
his career is soon done; despite this, he’s won
more games than most. We think he’s been dosed.
Soriano the Yank is another who drank
the chance-beating potion. He defies every notion
that studies have shown about the strike zone.
To hit with much sock, you must take a walk
more than one time a week. But somehow this freak
is a power producer. He must be a juicer.
Yet these little scandals cannot hold candles
to the news a whole team has fed their bloodstream
with improbable tonics. This act of demonics
made Angels misnomers, for they ranked tenth in homers
and in walks were eleven. Yet the Angels in seven
won the World Series. No plausible theories
can explain how they slugged, unless they were drugged
to defy their long odds, and change monkeys to gods.
Ever since a certain Alabaman
made a catch that to this day still astounds
every person there at the Polo Grounds,
the Giants have suffered from a famine
of World Series championships (and what
would be different if Willie Mays had signed
with Boston instead?) which they hope to find
the greatness of Barry Bonds can end, but–
Scioscia likes to go off to the races,
which pressures the Nens, Ortizes and Schmidts
to not give up walks and not give up hits
in order to keep off of the bases
the Garret Andersons and Tim Salmons.
That’s Diamond Notes, and I’m Peter Gammons.
As Milton comes down from the frost,
Angels from heaven are tossed.
Milton shows how they fell,
Makes us watch burn in hell
Angels cursing their paradise lost.
Il y avait
par le passé
Un boulanger poussiéreux
Qui a voulu savoir
Qui allait gagner ce soir
Dans le jeu le numéro deux.
Le Russe, il prevoit,
“Je dis que je crois,
Hier, les perdants étaient nous
Un lancer boisé*
nous a défaits
Mais ce soir, il sera vous!”
When questioned if they will face Scioscia,
The Twins fan responded, “Yah, oh, sure,
We’ll win, sure, yabetcha!
I’m planning to getcha
A date with a Disneyland brochure!”
Snowballs tossed by kids
An old man watches them pass
And keeps on walking
It’s baseball players who I’ve come to speak
About today: these greedy, spoiled, and vain
Young, bratty millionaires who just complain
And cry if they don’t get the cash they seek,
With artificially enhanced physiques
From steroid use that gives them bulgy eyes
And hairy backs and arms the size of thighs–
Who wants to pay to see these monstrous freaks?
Not me! And now I hear one team has streaked
For twenty games! This has gone way too far!
Just think of all the children this will scar:
Young fans who might have accidentally peeked
At full frontals flashing and bare behinds
Of freaks who… What? Oh, sorry. Never mind.
When they spend their first draft pick on Swisher
The A’s were a got-what-they-wisher
They’re quite happy with Nick
But a nit they could pick
Is he’s too much a swing-and-a-misher.
There was a great GM named Beane
Whose team he’d never actually seen.
When asked how he wins,
He nervously grins,
“Supersti– er, it’s my routine.”
