Tonight's entry is a take on the baseball classic "Casey at the Bat." One thing you learn while rewriting things like this is the amazing skill of the author of this seemingly simple poem. I am humbled to present this...
Omar Created That...
The outlook wasn't brilliant for Omar's chosen nine last May;
The score stood one and four, but with this season left to play,
And the way that 07 died so fast, and next year did the same,
A silence fell as each winter signing was released from the game.
A straggling few left for the Bronx in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which each spring rises in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Omar could read a book on stats -
With the cash we have spent, we should be better than that."
But Phillips preceded Omar, as did also Jim Duquette,
And the latter was a dumbass, while the former had a rotund pet;
So upon the Flushing faithful, a sense of melancholy sat;
For there seemed no chance of playoffs, and what comes after that.
When Davis played well at first, twas to the wonderment of all,
And one surprising callup, could not lose with a knuckleball;
And when June came upon us, and fans saw what had occurred,
Who could have predicted July, and the team's collective turd?
Then from the assembled faithful, there rose a horrid yell;
It rumbled like the 7, on wayward tracks to hell;
Those who saw the lack of depth, they with hatred spat,
For Omar, mighty Omar, had not corrected that.
There was ease in Omar's manner as Jeffy, he effaced,
There was pride in Omar's bearing, as illness claimed fourth place.
And when the media refrained from jeers, he stood softly pat,
Those who cared, strong and proud, knew that Omar created that.
Ten thousand muscles pulled as he told them rub with dirt.
No one stood surprised when for two seasons they turned up hurt.
No matter whether the issue was a hammy, strained oblique or hip,
Defiance flashed in Omar's eye, an excuse for his wayward trip
And when the lack of depth, it was brutally laid bare,
And Omar preached aggression in haughty grandeur there.
By a sudden sprain or drain, of the arm, knee, back or head-
"Play through the hurt" said Ramirez. "Strike one!" the fans they said.
On the benches, worn like stone steps, of ancient lands of yore,
Sat million dollar benchwarmers, whilst tickets made fans poor;
"Kill Jerry! Kill the manager!" shouted some one on the stand;
And they'd have killed him then, averse to his self-liked plan.
With no respect for the depths of charity that Omar's Los Mets had sure blown;
But with the release of GMJ, the game would still go on;
He assured the fans in winter: he had signed a decent crew;
But Omar ignored objections, and the fans exclaimed "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But with the Wilpon's sure sunrise, his career would still go on.
They saw the team hit nothing at all and subsequently went cold,
And they knew that Omar's sunrise was a frigid dusk of old.
The sneer has fled from Omar's lip, as his WAR only ended in hate;
Though slaps of cruel aggression let strikes cross the plate.
And now the Phillies held the East, and were not letting go,
While Mets fans were relegated to lauding laser throws.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
And this could be in Flushing - when mighty Omar is thrown out!