Bartolo at the Bat: A poem

There was no joy in Metville for the New York nine that day,
The game had gone on far too long, the sky was turning gray.
deGrom shut out the Braves for nine, the bullpen for ten more,
But after nineteen innings, the Mets had yet to score.

The next frame started much the same,
Two outs and no one on;
Then David Wright stepped to the plate,
And hit one that looked gone.

The fans arose; could this be it?
The ball soared like a bird;
But then it hit short of the wall,
And Wright slid into third.

Conforto got an intentional pass,
Yoenis walked as well;
The force was on at any base,
But only time would tell.

The pitcher’s spot was due up next,
The bench used up today;
Except for one, the newest Met,
The kid from Triple-A.

The umpire made the lineup change,
The rook now in the game,
The fans could sense a New York win,
They cheered and called his name.

The new kid sat stunned on the bench,
A teammate said, "Don’t linger."
He jumped and ran to get a bat,
Then tripped and broke his finger.

The manager had no one left,
He yelled and threw his hat;
But suddenly the Mets bench stirred,
As Bartolo grabbed a bat.

He stepped out from the dugout,
And the Citi fans went wild,
The pressure now was surely on,
Bartolo simply smiled.

He stepped into the batter’s box
A helmet on his head;
The catcher put down number one,
The first pitch was dead red.

Bartolo took a mighty cut,
He missed and spun around;
His helmet flew off as he fell,
And tumbled to the ground.

The catcher laughed and helped him up,
He dusted off his shirt;
The second pitch was way outside,
And landed in the dirt.

Bartolo took a healthy cut,
And missed it by a mile;
The umpire tried hard not to laugh,
He couldn’t help but smile.

Bartolo knew if he struck out,
His loyal fans might boo;
So at that moment he resolved,
To try out something new.

The pitch was thrown right down the pipe,
At just the perfect height;
Bartolo simply closed his eyes,
And swung with all his might.

The fans all heard the crack of the bat,
An unmistakable sound;
And then Bartolo opened his eyes,
As he stopped spinning around.

The ball soared deep to center field,
The outfielder gave pursuit;
His teammates rose to take a look,
The fans began to root.

It cleared the fence and hit the apple,
Bartolo tipped his hat;
And as he passed the third base coach,
He still carried his bat.

He slowed down as he headed home,
And found his teammates grinning:
Then Collins pointed at the plate,
Where his helmet was still spinning.

In all the years the Mets have played,
The memories reign supreme;
The miracle of ’69,
Proved anyone could dream.

From Cleon’s shoe to Endy’s catch,
Mike’s 9/11 home run;
Santana’s great no-hitter,
McGraw just having fun.

But for those fans who saw that game,
One memory makes them shout;
For they will never forget the day
Bartolo hit one out.