The Big Spot

Life is a series of contradictions, yes,
but the question is: when it comes down to game
seven do you go with the young fire-
baller who brings the high heat pitch after
pitch in a relentless display of power
until he tires and the hitters start to catch
up with it, which could happen fast on three
days rest, or do you go with the savvy old
veteran who knows how to paint the corners
but could struggle with his pitch count and not
make it out of the fifth or sixth inning,
or do you trot them both out onto the mound
because it's your metaphor now, your game,
and you can change the rules if you want?

Walk-off

I liked it when the home run meant something,
when forty-five dingers might lead the league
in any given season, when a man
making the minimum wage could afford
to take his children out to see their idol
go yard, when the long ball was scarce and more
than a cheap way to sell tickets and appeal
to “chicks,” when the single-season record
was “tainted” only because of the bigotry
of popularity, when the home run king
was a thick-skinned hero who had to overcome
real bigotry even more than the shadow
of the greatest ever who had twice smacked more round-
trippers than every other team in his league.

Stephen King's Bosox Voodoo Glare

What reverses the curse for the Red Sox? The Stephen King factor. After every time the camera cuts to him, something good happens for the Sox. If nothing else I would love it if the Sox win the series so the fans can stop whining (what will they talk about? Ted Williams's cryohead, I guess.). Try being a Pirates fan in the new baseball economy. Or consider the Orioles, a once proud team stuck with a stupid (in terms of team building) egotistical owner, a stupdily serious, "realistic" bird which just sucks compared to the fun cartoonish character who used to appear on their caps, and in the same division with the bloody Sawks and bloodier Yaynks. (It's not whining when I do it, see.)