The most pressing question of this off-season is when and where all of the free agents will sign. Unless you count the ones asking whether the free agents will actually sign. But right after those comes the question that many aren’t even sure they want answered:
“To what lengths will baseball writers go in this desolate, forsaken hellscape of an off-season in order to produce #content?”
Today that question gets an answer in the form of a bunch of poetry. To those of you who love poetry, you’re welcome and I hope you enjoy. For everyone else, I’m sorry. Just remember before you send all your hate-filled comments and e-mails that this is really the fault of whoever the heck decided that this off-season should be so terrible.
The Ballad of Moose
The battle-scarred, wooden club leaned against the wall;
Many fans once cheered to watch that hammer fall.
Mike had once been promised this time he’d have it made
Instead, he sits alone at home, waiting to get paid.
His leadership, character, charisma came through true.
The gleaming gloves of gold were worth something, too.
Some said he was the very best who could be found this year
But still, he waits to find the team to add on to his career.
Ode to Lorenzo
The underrated player who could do everything
Get hits, take walks, catch flies, and steal. He could even sing
Was told that he would have no chance to get a good deal
But Cain’s the only one whose contract is real
The crafty lefty made his comeback
But cannot get an offer
Even without the petty restraints
none will open their coffer
His agent trying to get deals
But teams won’t even proffer
A deal to one who can’t throw heat
Why should they even bother?
Limerick of Developmental Disaster
The system lacks prospects of pedigree
Except the one sees those with med degrees,
The shortstop who’s blocked by Esky,
The one who finds strikes quite pesky,
And Bub’ who near left them to be free
Haiku of Baseball Boredom
Free agency sucks
The players should be signed now
Show them the money
Limerick of Non-Collusion
The owners say profits are compact
Or mayhap next year they’ll then act
Whatever the reason
Now is the season
To give these fine players a contract
Tanka of Player Frustration
Players like steam pipes
Seething, roiling pressure builds
None seek release valve
Owners grin like happy frogs
Baseball seems poised to explode.
More baseball or more poetry?
This poll is closed
Why not both?
Baseball IS poetry.