Quoth STEVE HOLM!: "Nevermore."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious Twins loss before,
While the offense nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the clubhouse door.
`'Tis Nick Punto,' I muttered, `missing juiceboxes galore -
Only this, and nothing more.'


"Beyond the jump!" STEVE HOLM! implores.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak May,
And each separate blown lead wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the Morneau; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books sabermetric of sorrow - sorrow for the baseball score -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the rulebook named a winning score -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each homer hankie
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis Nick Punto entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late gritty veteran entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,"

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came sliding, head first into my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Twins manager ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Butera!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Butera!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the clubhouse turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is a bullpen member I deplore;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and their ERA explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
"Tis a minor leaguer and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shout and bluster,
In there stepped a stately catcher of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lords before, stood blocking my clubhouse door -
Stood, crushing an errant juicebox upon the floor -
Stood, and was awesome, and nothing more.


Quoth the juicebox: "Crumple me no more."

Then this epic win beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy meme be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and DFA'd raven wandering from the Rochester shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name, you who Twinkie Town adores!'
Quoth STEVE HOLM!, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this amazing hero to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with STEVE HOLM! blocking his clubhouse door -
Bird or beast or backup catcher blocking his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But STEVE HOLM!, errantly quashing the placid juicebox, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a home run then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other memes have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as Dickey Time has flown before.'
Then STEVE HOLM! said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what he utters is his only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy manager whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his team many burdens bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy DFA bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But STEVE HOLM! still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I scraped a bench in front of HOLM! and door;
Then, upon the hardwood sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto meme, thinking what this fantastic catcher of yore -
What this grimly astounding, ghastly amazing, ominous DFA'd, catcher of yore
Meant in speaking his sage words: `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the catcher whose fiery eyes now burned into my box score;
This and more I sat divining, with my head uncomfortably reclining
On the unlined wooden bench that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose unlined wooden bench with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
STEVE HOLM! shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by piranhas whose baserunning mistakes tinkled on the tufted floor.
"HOLM!", I cried, `thy baseball gods have lent thee - by these angels they have sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of wins before!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost season I abhor!'
Quoth STEVE HOLM!, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of awe!" - prophet still, if man or meme! -
Whether Ozzie Guillen sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Target Field enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there grit in baseball? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth STEVE HOLM!, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of awe!" - prophet still, if man or meme! -
By that getafteritude that binds us - by the baseball gods we both adore -
Tell this manager with sorrow laden if, within the distant October,
It shall clasp a sainted pennant whom the angels named AL Central -
Clasp a rare and radiant pennant, whom the angels named AL Central?'
Quoth STEVE HOLM!, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, sabermetric fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Rochester shore!
Leave no pictures as a token of that lie thy meme hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - and stop standing in my door!
Take thy lack of grit from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth STEVE HOLM!, "Nevermore."

And STEVE HOLM!, always grand, still does stand, still does stand
At the darkened entrance of my clubhouse door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a statistician that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!


"Defile not Poe, nor our literary fathers afore!"

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