When I'm not being an idiot in various comment sections and gamethreads around this site, I'm probably writing either fiction or poetry. Be it silly poetry or serious and dark lyrical poetry, writing it is something of my first love. I wondered recently if I could combine that with my second love, baseball. It was one of those joltingly novel ideas that spring to your head when your brain is in no condition to be coming up with ideas, such as when you are just about to fall asleep, or very ill, or in the midst of a Mexican stand-off. It was the kind of idea that sounds good for six seconds and then you realize it is really very stupid. Still, like the time I wondered what vanilla extract would taste like on cooked rice, I did it anyway.
And now you all have to deal with the consequences. Free form poetry (because form is for lame conformists.) based on Twins players present and past.
A lone man steps to the plate, his heart set to mash,
The windup, the pitch, it happens in a flash.
The crack of the bat, the ball dances in the light,
Our hero rounds the bases, no helmet in sight.
Eduardo Nunez 2
Eduardo, my dear, do not listen to what they say.
You are our all-star and it shouldn't be any other way.
The others, they do not see your true majesty.
Great seasons are rewarded. F*** you, Grant Brisbee.
Newly appointed lumberjack, same old Kurt.
You were good and then you sucked, now you are back at work.
This performance as of late certainly has me confused.
Should I feel good or bad about that extension we gave you?
Paid many millions, a contract some still call a shame.
Get hit in the head enough and you won't play quite the same.
They call you lazy, but I understand your grace.
Why swing the bat when you can just walk to first base?
Once the toppest of prospects, now some say a bust.
Hasty thinking, most like, but we still need something to trust.
It is true that you run as fasts as a scared gazelle,
But we still need you to hit something higher than .212.
Diving into first when there isn't even a play,
You made Grit and Hustle mean what they mean today.
Maybe you didn't hit enough to deserve many starts,
But you still slid head first right into our hearts.
You gave the fans lots of souvenirs every single first.
You stuck around and played well even when this team was just the worst.
Oh, Radical Brad, you had such amazing control.
Too bad modeling everyone after you turned our pitching staff into a black hole.
The way you smacked home runs filled us all with joy.
Justin, or Jason or whatever. You were still our boy.
But now I'm forced to see you play under the Chicago flag,
and it makes me feel like I have caught the bubonic plague.
END POETRY SPAM
Please lovely community members. Do write your own.