Each time I sidle to the plate,Baseball is a subtle game;
you stare me down from the mound.
What you pitch, I still can't touch.
Your infinite variety
of curves and biting sliders,
they tie me up inside.
And then, my final turn at bat
(Bronx cheers raining from the crowd;
redemption one good poke away),
my mind wanders from the game.
The ball, the bat, a cloudless sky.
See the fences disappearÿ
the players float like balloonsÿ
the fans peel off all their clothes
and throw them as confetti.
Everything is possible
save for hitting that damn ball.
Strike three called, while I dream.
So, remember this when we part:
You've been, you are, you always will
be the ballata of my heart.
Spring '62 was a season of wonder
Casting a spell I still find myself under;
Something profound I could not then define
Struck me as Dad changed the channel to Nine.
Baseball it was, with a strange added magic
Blurring the line between comic and tragic.
Bad as it was it was good as it gets —
I fell in love with new New York Mets.
Nelson and Kiner and Murph called each play
("Drake throws it wide…and it's dropped by Bouchee!")
Painting the word picture, colorful, snappy,
Ending with recaps most often not happy.
(Paying to broadcast the team's odd beginnings,
Rheingold and Viceroys were sold between innings.)
Bringing new life to the old Polo Grounds,
Cheered by a fandom whose hope knew no bounds,
Time after time this team broke chance's laws,
Snatching defeat out of victory's jaws.
Games came undone like a battered ball's stitching;
Folly prevailed, leading off with the pitching:
Many a fat, hanging curveball was tossed,
Only MacKenzie won more than he lost;
Jackson dropped twenty and Craig twenty-four,
Anderson piled on seventeen more.
Hook was no better, no worse, but he found
History waiting for him on the mound:
After the Mets' first nine games, with none won,
He hooked the Bucs: New York 9, Pittsburgh 1.
Many who followed seemed merely spare parts:
Hunter was shot down in all his six starts;
Winless were Roadblock and Vinegar Bend
As their careers stalled and rolled to an end;
Cisco showed promise, one win, one defeat;
Once-great Labine should have stayed in St. Pete;
Moorhead pitched more games than most, all for nil;
Hillman's last days on the mound went downhill;
Brief were the tenures of Moford and Foss,
Just long enough to each rack up a loss.
Two Robert Millers shared time in Mets hell:
Lefty Bob G and righthander Bob L.
G split four Ds but would quickly depart;
L's only win was his twenty-first start.
(L would move on to earn World Series gold,
Then, at the end, would rejoin the Mets' fold.)
Daviault's only career victory came
July the seventh — my first big league game.
Taylor caught both games that day and was strong,
Homering twice; he'd hit three all year long.
Six other catchers would share backstop time,
Two not quite ready and four past their prime.
Choo Choo could fly, but his bat was deplorable;
Young Cannizzaro would prove more endurable.
Ginsberg caught twice, then was put on the shelf;
Chiti was traded for none but himself.
Piggy's career on the season's last day
Came to an end with one swing: triple play!
Landrith a niche in Mets annals would carve:
First to be drafted — then traded for Marv.
Marvelous Marv (whose pinch homer, sky high,
Won that aforementioned game in July)
Played with a style that the fans grew to love,
Feet missing bases and balls missing glove,
Sharing first base with the hobbled Gil Hodges,
One of the most revered ex-Brooklyn Dodgers.
Both men would yield to a young high school grad
Called in September to show what he had.
Striking a double that stirred hopeful cheers,
Kranepool arrived — and would stay 18 years.
'Cross the Mets infield a voice could be heard:
"Where's what's-his-name? Who's that guy playing third?"
Zimmer began the long third-base procession;
Legions replaced him in tag-team succession:
Wrong Way Mantilla and Hot Rod Kanehl,
Shortstop Chacon and their keystone man Neal,
Herrscher and Cook and others to follow
All took their turns at the hot-corner hollow.
Out in the outfield the grass was no greener
Save for two pros with an all-star demeanor:
Ashburn played great, as he had in his youth,
Then called it quits for the Phils' TV booth;
Thomas went yard more than Maris that year
Giving us thirty-four reasons to cheer.
Other warm bodies in left-center-right
Couldn't allay the team's ongoing plight:
Woodling's and Bell's better days were behind them
Like long fly balls when their gloves couldn't find them;
Christopher, pride of St. Croix, Virgin Isles,
Rarely made plays near as big as his smiles;
Bobby Gene Smith, who was just passing through,
Proved that three names are no better than two;
Marshall played one game there, out of position,
Helping to found a long-held Mets tradition;
Hickman could bash when his bat found the ball;
Then there's DeMerit — the name says it all.
Coaching this crew, Lavagetto and Kress,
Ruffing and Hemus - and Hornsby no less! —
Tried to impart their collective acumen,
Proving they too could be erringly human.
Stengel, ol' Casey, would watch from the dugout
Antic misplays that would make his eyes bug out;
He who once led the great team 'cross the river,
Waited in vain for these Mets to deliver.
Triumphs were few, only forty were rendered —
One for each three that were sadly surrendered.
Of his poor troops he was heard to exclaim:
"Can't anybody [here] play this here game?"
Then in a voice more ironic than brazen
Christened these lovable losers "Amazin'!"
Yes, '62 was a magical season,
Wondrous beyond any logic or reason.
Onward remembrances from way-back-when go,
Echoing groans and the cry "Yo lo tengo!"
Bad as it was it was good as it gets;
Proudly we hailed: "Let's Go Mets! Let's Go Mets!"
Urgent with importt.
