An Ode Based on Mighty Casey
It must be fate for back in 1888, a poem about baseball there came. Gave birth in San Francisco by one Ernest L. Thayer, who never claimed to be a soothsayer, the poem still has meaning today. So beg our pardon, and please forgive my jargon, here is a poem and I will elucidate.
The future was not bright for the nine that play by the bay,
Especially when they heard, that B-Weezy went down south to play.
And there were all those injuries to Scutero, Casilla, Sandoval, and Pagan,
Oh and let’s not forget Affelt, Arias, and one guy named Ryan Vogelsong.
Then there were the struggling starters, some of the game’s best,
Matt Cain’s arm is one that could certainly have used the rest.
Madison Bumgarner had been strong, but his arm must have been tired,
And when it came to Barry Zito, I think it was just time that he retired.
Fantastic Tim Lincecum, threw a no-hitter,
Yet the beginning of his season, probably left him bitter.
Chad Gaudin was inserted in the rotation,
And with him some stabilization.
The bullpen and middle relief, proved to be truly quite weak,
And as the story goes, and as everyone knows, the rubber’s no place for the meek.
Although closer Sergio Romo was indeed a bright light,
The other closers, were no more than a fright.
Right out of the gate the Giants won late,
In late innings they truly were great.
In coming from behind they were sublime,
So during last at bats, they were in their prime.
The infielder’s lack of defense created sheer terror,
This of course led to numerous more errors.
They would pound their mitts, and kneel with grace,
Still when balls got through, they felt disgraced.
But the fans had hope, until it became clear,
That even the Padres were better, and that was before the consumption of beer.
For if the Giants were to rally, the mountain they would climb,
Was filled with D-Backs, Rockies, and Dodgers, while running out of time.
Oh somewhere crowds are cheering,
And still others clap and shout.
But not in San Francisco,
For the Giants are finally out.
Yeah it’s not Proust, but I think it captures the mood.