As you've probably already figured out, it ain't easy being a Mets fan (it's probably even harder to be a Mets player). So, as a consolation to all of you out there who are feeling "our" pain, I give you this poem from the Modern Fictional, Non-Fiction Baseball Classic, Believeniks!:
Innings
Into whose blackness double plays tumble
And the boos!
Boos echoing
Off the upper deck like shrikes
The out
Rising like smoke, like a
Wrapper swirling
Mustard-stained, to the foot
Of the Whitestone.
Failed bunts
Third strikes
Nerve-flaying blown saves.
Years later I
Encounter them in the stats --
Stats dry and bodiless,
Yet hold the book at arm's length
See the shape?
They reveal the shadow of a skull.
A Met grins.
P.S. ("this is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated") - There'll be light posting this and next week (too much work, going out of town and, perhaps, just a little pre-election Republican-Scandal-Fatigue).
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