We can only hope to suck as badly in our real-worldly endeavors as we do in this fantasy universe we've been lucky enough to play in. Last night was a perfectly executed ending to a splendiferous stretch run. An 8 - 3 victory in the first game; a 12 - 1 shellacking in the second.
There was a certain air of inevitability about the evening that kept us loosey and goosey (although our consigliere, role model and Chief Sun Dance Chanter, Robert "Solid" Gold, suggests that I am once again mistaking an excess of humidity for inevitability.)
As usual, I have spent some time avoiding work and offer the ditty below. Do not report me to the Verity Police. Time may fly "like an arrow," as Grocho said, but "fruit flies like a banana." This effort is more of the banana variety, with time out of sequence and reality off kilter.
Fred set the tone
By smacking a double
Ed shot him home
With right-field trouble
Ed took flight
As it rattled around
Setting his sight
On third-base ground
Where we heard Mark cry
All through the night
As he waved us by
With giddy delight
Then Jay took the mound
And arced the ball high
A grunt did resound
As it whizzed on by
But that wasn't Jay
Grunting away
'Twas Arch arching
To make the play
But he picked their pocket
And and ate it up
Firing a rocket
Like a young pup
Kevin stretched deftly
As it hit his mitt
Said the runner meekly:
"Damn, oh shit."
Now, Jim's so driven
You could make the case
That he's only livin'
When he gets on base.
Pete's numbers are three —
Four, seven and eight —
Who We Do
Appreciate!
Mike in the field greening
Chasing a fly
Redefines meaning
Of the word "spry""
Steady as always
Steve knocked in runs
Though it was one of those days
When he fell on his buns
Lary nearly jacked one
Like the days of yore
When he'd count to ten
As he'd watch it soar.
Bob hit some ropes
And nothing got past
His scoops like a scope
Exploring your assed.
Let's not forget Rick
Our Wee Willie Keeler
Who makes pitchers sick
And scores like a dealer.
Or Robert, our counsel,
Mentor and sage
Whose heroics won't fit
This measly page.
As for the bench,
I have to thank heaven
We can call on a mensch
To field ten or eleven
Geoff caught a few
Wayne ran like a deer
Harry's game, too,
And Jim's always near.
So there goes the bloom
Until the next spring
When we glady resume
This amorous fling.
But please, no lies,
One and all
As you send me your size:
Humongous or small.
For we're all getting shirts
We can wear for some hoots
That proclaim us forever
"The Champs of Old Coots!"
Thanks to Robert for picking up the bar bill at Maud's; the food bill was mostly paid by your exorbitant team entry fee. It was great to socialize together off the field -- in fact, that was the first time that I've closed a joint down in 25 years, going back to the days when saloons used to stay open until at least 11:30.
Seriously, you are all gamers, and I'm truly fortunate to be among you. Thanks for a memorable season. I, for one, can't wait to pick it all up again in 2010.