Marinerds, etc.

A poetic parody by Deanna Rubin.

(The original poem - Casey At The Bat)
(The inspiration for this - Jayson Stark)
(The game - 10/17, Cards 5, Astros 4)

Pujols At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Cardinal nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Luna struck out hard, and Mabry did the same,
A crazy cheering started from the patrons of the game.

The Astros needed just one out to be the NL champs;
The stadium erupted more in waves of claps and stamps.
LaRussa knew if Pujols could but get a whack at that--
They still might have a chance to score with Pujols at the bat.

But X preceded Pujols, and Jim Edmonds did as well;
And the former was a midget and the latter was a kvell.
So upon that rooting multitude high confidences sat
For there seemed but little chance of Pujols getting up to bat.

But Eckstein hit a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Edmonds, with great patience, didn't swing at the fourth ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the perfect save had burst,
There was Eckstein poised at second as Jim Edmonds walked to first.

Then forty thousand throats and more had sudd'nly ceased to cheer;
The silence filled the outfield, it smothered fans with fear;
It hushed upon the dugouts and recoiled upon the flat,
For Pujols, Albert Pujols, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Albert's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Albert's bearing, but no smile upon his face.
And as he stepped into the box, eyes narrowed like a cat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Pujols at the bat.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Pujols stood a-watching it for a split second there.
He swung wild at the slider, but his form had briefly fled,
"That pitch was tough," thought Pujols. "Strike one," the umpire said.

"YES!" cried the maddened thousands, and it echoed out abroad;
But one stoic look from Pujols and the audience was awed.
They saw him start to concentrate, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Pujols wouldn't let that ball go by again.

He tenses up his upper arms, he starts to shift his weight;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now Brad Lidge winds up the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by a Pujols crushing blow.

The ball rose up into the air, it seemed 'twould never land;
And all the crowd was silent as it flew over the stand.
The players ran the bases, the ball soared in its arc
It hit the glassy outer wall, high up above the park.

Oh, somewhere in this southern state the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere fans are cheering, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Houston - Mighty Pujols slammed one out.

Scot Shields walked into the clubhouse and sat down at his locker, getting ready to clean it out for the final time of the year. Most of the team was around, chatting about plans in the offseason, complaining about aches, pains, umpires, or whatnot. Sitting at a table behind him was Darin Erstad, Garret Anderson, and Steve Finley, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial voices.

He could occasionally hear various phrases coming from their table, and they weren't making much sense, so finally his curiosity got the best of him and he walked over and sat down.

"You guys gonna let me know what the hell you're talking about?" he asked.

"Shh, man!" said Garret.

"Funny you should put it that way," said Erstad quietly.

"What way?" Shields replied in a low tone.

"The 'hell'." Erstad looked really serious. "Scotty, we think we figured out how the White Sox managed to beat us. It's some seriously scary shit."

"Uh, okay," started Shields, a skeptical look on his face.

Finley grimaced. "No, really, we have. See, we're the Angels, right? And what's the only thing that can even begin to come close to defeating an Angel?"

Shields stared. "The Blue Jays? We went 1-5 against them this year..."

Erstad blinked. "No, dude, think more evil."

"Um, how about the Devil Rays? We were 4-5 against them..."

Finley had a strange, distant half-smile on his face. "The 'Devil' Rays... He's getting closer, guys. Think biblical, Scot. Think, like, the heavens and hellfire and..."

Shields groaned. "Oh, don't tell me you think the White Sox beat us because they've become a bunch of demons or something."

Garret shrugged. "It's written all over the place, man. First, did you see the commercials they did this year? They even have one where Aaron Rowand dies slamming into the outfield wall and Satan immediately appears to claim his soul. It's actually *in* their contracts."



"Guys, that's a dude in a devil costume."

Finley interjected. "Okay, wait, but how else do you explain how A.J.Pierzynski getting all those calls from the umps? That was really obviously the work of a greater evil force out there. I mean, once, the 'third strike in the dirt', maybe that's a fluke. Twice, that catcher's interference on me... that's a little weirder. But *three times* he was in the midst of controversial calls and came out shining like a little--"

"Don't say it."

"All right. But, really... most of those players sold their souls to the devil a long time ago. It's the only explanation. I know you spend most of your time way out in the bullpen, but have you taken a good look at Mark Buehrle lately?"

Shields started to stand up. "You people are nuts."

Garret held out a piece of paper. "And look at this."

"What?"

"You know how Satanists always have ways of writing secret messages in text, by rearranging the letters and all? Well, we noticed some mighty odd things about that team."

Shields looked at the paper, and saw several White Sox names rearranged.

OZZIE GUILLEN = I NOZZLE GUILE

JOSE ARIEL CONTRERAS = SATAN, LOSER REJOICER

FREDDY ANTONIO GARCIA = GORY AID FOR DANTE IN CA

SCOTT ERIC PODSEDNIK = I DOCK TINTED CORPSES

"Not bad," said Shields. "But you know, that game goes both ways."

Garret looked confused. "Huh?"

"Well, for example, if you rearrange 'Darin Erstad'..." started Shields, as he scribbled on the paper. "You can get some pretty descriptive things too, eh?" He handed the paper to Erstad. "I'll see the three of you next year. Don't fall into any fiery pits of Hell between now and Spring Training, 'kay?" He walked off.

Erstad read the paper and turned redder than a pair of Thunderstix.

Finley glanced at it and didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry. "The three of us. 'A NERDS TRIAD', huh?"

"Shut up," said Erstad.

Dear Random House,

I think that you should produce a children's book about the baseball postseason. Since I know it would take a very long time to write an entire book from scratch, I have helpfully assembled some proposed changes to your book, Fox in Socks, which would make it more topical for this October.

Yours truly,
Deanna the Marinerd

Fox

Sox

Knocks

Box

Sox on Fox.

Knocks in Box.

Foxy Sox hit knocks in box. Knocks in box put Sox on Fox.

Brats with hats come.
Brats with bats come.
Brats with hats and bats and stats come.

Look sir, look sir, Mister Vlad, sir,
Won't you sign my ball and bat, sir?
Won't you sign my glove and hat, sir?
Why're you being such a prat, sir?

Byrd throws curve balls.
Byrd throws dirt balls.
Byrd throws third balls.
Ump's absurd calls.
Byrd's earned runs falls.

Scot Shields fields wheels.
Scot Shields yields steals.
Scot Shields wields schpiels.

Here's an easy game to play!
Here's an easy thing to say:

If Podsednik is a redneck who should be in Triple A
And Pierzynski's got a hist'ry disregarding rules of play
And Ozuna's like a tuna who is flopping in the air
And Konerko is a jerko who's got really stupid hair

But ol' Finley's rather thinly getting to the warning track
And Cabrera's got his share a' throwing over Erstad's back
And that Garrett's like a parrot as he's flapping off his beak
And Molina's a hyena as he tags you in the cheek,

We're not rooting for Chicago! But we hate the Angels too!
When you're faced with lousy choices, what's a baseball fan to do?
Let's ignore the whole caboodle, let's go out and have a beer,
And just hope and pray the Mariners can win it all next year.

It was a dull Tuesday afternoon in the locker room of Yankees Stadium, the day after a grueling loss in game 5 of the ALDS. Various players were milling about, cleaning out their lockers. Some were still trying to get in some workout time in the weight room, and a few sat around chatting idly. Derek Jeter was sitting by his locker, staring at a piece of paper in his hand.

Mike Mussina walked up to him. "Answering some last-minute fan mail?"

Jeter looked up, as if in a daze. "No... I wouldn't call this fan mail, exactly. Here, read it, Moose."

Mussina picked up the letter and read it to himself. His eyes first lit up with bemusement, then briefly flared with anger, and then fell into a dull stare.

Dear DJ,

Since we're kinda in the same boat here, man, I figured I'd drop ya a note with my condolences. Look on the bright side... I can tell you there's a lot more that goes with being the leadoff man on a winning World Series team these days. For example, you know that those Queer Eye guys want to do another show for whoever wins this year? So they can raise money for the Little Leaguers down in Louisiana? You may think it's humiliating getting beaten by the Angels, but trust me when I tell you there's nothing more humiliating than getting groped by that Carson Kressley guy on national TV. Did you see those crazy-ass pinstripes he put Mirabelli in last year? Hoooooooly shit, man, you should consider yourself lucky.

By the way, Manny says hi too. He says you guys can be friends now that you both hit lots of homers in the postseason and still lost. He had a message for Alex too, but he kept dissolving into giggles before he could get it out. I think it was something like "MVP my .133-batting ass, Slappy!" At least, that's how Bronson Arroyo translated it.

I'll see ya out on the warpath again next year, bro. Keep it real.

Love, JD

P.S - My hairstylist says to tell Alex that she doesn't care what anyone says, he's still a hottie.

"So this is it, huh," Mussina said. "We're getting sympathy from Johnny Damon and the Red Sox."

"I dunno," replied Jeter. "He's got a point."

"What, that we're all a bunch of overpaid losers now?"

"No, I mean, did you see that episode of Queer Eye? We really did luck out, man. Do you really want to get your back waxed on national TV?"

They both paused for a minute, looked at each other, and flinched at the thought.

"I hope it's not the White Sox, then," mused Mussina.

"Why's that? 'Cause they beat the Red Sox?"

"No." He grimaced. "What's one of the few things that should hopefully never, ever, ever be seen on television ever again?"

Jeter thought for a minute. "Randy Johnson's face?"

Mussina shook his head. "Worse. Two words." He shuddered, as if it pained him to say it.

Jeter gave him a blank stare. "I give up."

"Duque Dance!"

After a long day at work, outfielder Jeff Francoeur couldn't be more glad to get home. He pushed open the door to his apartment, threw his suitcase down on the ground, and fell onto the couch, exhausted after the 18-inning NLDS-ending loss to the Astros. His roomate, catcher Brian McCann, followed suit, except he was stuck with the armchair, flinging his legs over the side.

They sat in silence for a minute, then Brian said, "Hey, you're the one who struck out to end the top of the eighteenth, why do *you* get the couch?"

Jeff said, "Look, dude, I didn't call that fastball down the middle that Chris Burke slammed into the left-field stands, okay?"

Brian thought about that one for a minute. "Neither did I." He paused. "But I hit that really neat home run off Clemens in game 2. That was COOL."

Jeff nodded. "Ooooh, good point." He stood up and went over to the fridge, digging for a nice cold bottle of Yoo-Hoo. "You want a drink, Bri?"

"Nah... I think I'm going to sit here and play some video games."

"Oh. Whatcha putting in?"

Brian started up the Playstation 2, grabbed a controller, threw another one onto the armchair, and sat on the couch. "MLB 2005. I get Clemens, you get Smoltz. Let's rumble."

"Oh, fuck, man, why don't *I* ever get to be Clemens?"

"Who hit the home run off him? Hello?"

Jeff stuck out his tongue. "Who's gonna be NL Rookie of the Year this year?"

"Ryan Howard?" Brian smirked.

"Screw this. I'm going to sleep. Wake me up in March."