The Blunting of the Park: an Opening Day preview in verse

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Just the place for a Park! | Matt Krohn / MLB Photos via Getty Images

(There’s about six minutes of intro before the poem begins… but come on, it’s Jeremy Irons.)

Hit the First
The Standings

“Just the club for a Park!” the Purseman cried
While addressing his team as heir,
Dismissing the lot who could possibly chide
With successes eventually rare.

“Just the club for a Park! I repeat it once;
Only once should exhibit I’m true.
Just the club for a Park! I repeat for months,
There’s no reason to doubt what I do.”

The club was complete, and it featured a Plug—
A bringer of Power and Heat—
A Puppeteer, nimble and deft, never smug—
And a Pitt-boss, to warm the first seat.

A Pediatrician, confined to his rest,
Might perhaps have won more than his share—
But a Poleman, though recently flunking his test,
Stood instead with a kicked derrière.

There was also a Puppy, who eager on deck,
Would be oft reaching base from the box,
And was keen (said the Purseman) with personal beck
To bring all the hopefuls in flocks.

There was one who is claimed to have powerful swings,
But we’ve not seen the power in days:
All the homers and doubles and extra-base things
Have been lost in a dumbfounded gaze.

He had four or so million in undersigned cash
And a place in the order in pen,
But swinging an outgrowth of Louisville ash,
He was missing the baseball again.

The loss of the bat wouldn’t matter because
He’d a contract that paid him to play;
His presence, however, gave many a pause
As his talent went down by the day.

They would holler, “You lame!” or a similar name
Such as “Lousy!” or “Loon of a cake!”
Or “Dithering dimwit!” or “Why have you came?”
But especially “Jump in a lake!”

But for those who preferred a more violent word,
He heard different names from these:
The ones in the bleachers said “Son-of-a-beech,”
And the regulars only “Jeez.”

“He may be ungainly—his offense low—
(So the Purseman was heard to remark)
“But he’s sure to be perfect, and that, so you know,
Is the thing we should see at the Park.”

He could play as the cleanest, in manner or style,
And he’ll put in the effort, no doubt;
He can hit, he can walk (though it may be awhile)
“‘Cause it keeps me from being called out.”

They called him a Popper, though now out of prime,
But the Purseman was farthest from mad:
Any others deserving would come in their time,
Any queries absurd to be had.

The back-man as well had a manner too stark
Though he’d look to be muscle, no brain;
He had one major job, but that job at the Park
Meant the Purseman could hardly complain.

His claim was as Penguin, and soon he declared,
When the training was well into spring,
He’d a fondness for Puppies. The Purseman then sweared
At the lack of a conflict or twing.

So he tried to explain, with a blunt condescence,
That a Puppy was born to be teased,
And this one, regardless of drives to the fence,
Some japes would be all that appeased.

The Puppy ignored all this meaningless snark,
Enjoying the bond with his team,
And the pleasure that came with the play at the Park
Would be all that a fellow could dream.

The Penguin, of course, was inclined to agree,
And nothing would hamper their March,
But the Purseman declared that some conflict should be
Before giving a kick to the arch.

For the guidance is always the mark of a boss,
Per sentences carved on his horn:
The team at their throats should be constantly cross,
And their vengeances constantly sworn.

The Puppy was told he should holler and yell
For seconds and minutes ‘til hoarse—
E’en the Popper ignored it—and then, he should tell
His clubmate to meet a foul course.

Then the Poleman suggested, to mitigate ire,
A moderate curse or a swear;
Two “Hecks” or a “Darn it” would make him perspire
And enter some tense in the air.

But still, even after that compromise thrown,
Whenever the Penguin was by,
The Puppy was pleased by the kindness they’d shown
Awaiting whatever was nigh.

Hit the Second
The Purseman’s Speech

The Purseman himself sang his praises aloud—
What a wealth, what a man, what a face!
What absurdity, too! Those who sat in the crowd
Could see he’d inflated his place.

He’d a rather large vocal for his running the team
With hardly the concept of plan,
And not many were pleased when it surely would seem
He’d not pay near as much as he can.

“What’s the good of this spending to bring on an ending,
There’s no need to throw money at wins!”
So the Purseman would shout, while the crowd muttered, “Lout!
This is where the worst downfall begins!

Other fellows will pay for a guy who can play,
But we’ve got a cheap Purseman in charge”
(So the crowd would insist) “and his fix-it-up list
Is far from incredibly large!”

It’s alarming, we know, but the spring is a go
And the Purseman is fixed with a thorn;
He’s just one idea: to shop at IKEA
While tooting his personal horn.

He is pompous of soul—and his orders, in whole,
Are enough to bewilder the fans;
When he’d cry “Lesser payment,” we knew what this day meant—
What on earth may we do with these plans?

And the build of the club has been clearly askew,
But that, per the Purseman’s remark,
Is just how you act when you know what to do
On your way to a year at the Park.

But the principal blunder occurred with the plunder
Which the Purseman, his ego ballooned,
Said he hadn’t the need to give out in the lead,
So his ego has left us marooned!

Yet the spring has arrived—they had reached it, deprived
Of much talent or aces or stars,
And the crowd is annoyed now we’re facing a void
Of diluvian sorrow at bars.

The Purseman would see naught but certain success
Though the club may be lacking in hope,
And still he repeated, but why, I can’t guess—
To which everyone murmured a Nope.

He uttered the words that he’d uttered before,
And bade them to give him an ear;
And they knew that the Purseman would make them all snore
With statements they’d already hear.

“Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!”
(But none of them any were Roman,
And the rest of the speech was just amplify fears
Like the worst of a possible omen.)

“We have made it to spring, to the Opening Day,
(Through March, nearing April’s first mark),
And soon we will yet (as your Purseman will say)
Play in front of an audient park!

“We have made it to spring, to the first of our days,
(And from Thursday to Thursday, it’s sure),
But the Park on which each of us hungrily plays
Is the sight we await and endure!

“Now listen, my men, as I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may fill, by your talent or will,
The bleachers in all of your Parks.

“Let us take them in order. The first is the win,
By your scoring more runs than the foe:
And your tally will make the opposing head spin
While their record is dropping below.

“In achieving a victory, shall you agree,
This, the second, is what you must do;
You must finish with more when the outs number three;
Ideally, numbering two.

“The third is to finish on top in the game
By achieving the higher of scores,
Be sure to assign every speckle of blame;
Such the thing that a winner adores.

“The fourth should be chiseled on statue of gold
Or be framed on a wall at the Louvre:
When comparing opponent to we heroes bold,
They must have scored fewer than you’ve.

“The fifth is the tallies put up on the board:
Our team must have far more than they’ve;
By marking as such all the runs we have scored,
We’ll know when to holler or rave.

“For, although many Parks host the clubs who will win,
I should feel it my duty to warn,
Some are Losers—” The Purseman fell down on his chin
As the Popper had snoozed all the morn.

Hit the Third
The Popper’s Pale

They roused him with coffee—they roused him with ice—
They roused him with Gatorade caps—
They roused him with scouting reports to read twice—
They went to their own little naps.

When they finally woke, he was ready to speak,
A sad story he wanted to warn:
And the Purseman said, “Quiet! You’ve chattered all week!”
While impatiently tooting his horn.

They were silent at last; not a whisper had passed,
Nor had even a murmur or cough,
As the man who was jeered told the story he feared
While he tried to avoid nodding off.

“My start to career was a difficult slog—”
“Skip that!” cried the Purseman. “Move on!
If the mood becomes dark, why head off to the Park?
Or I won’t even stifle a yawn!”

“I skip, as you know,” said the Popper in woe,
And proceed to the central remark
To today, as you deem me a part of this team
While setting us off to the Park.

“An old skipper of mine (whom you might once have blamed)
Remarked to unbearable scorn—”
“Forget your old skipper!” the Purseman exclaimed
As he angrily tooted his horn.

“He remarked on the drop,” said the man of the Pop,
“‘If your Park is a Park, that’s all right;
It’s your home of your team–-you may call it a dream,
But it’s yours in the day and the night.

“‘You may travel by taxi—or travel by air,
You may travel by farthing-and-pen;
You may open its locks with your underwear;
You may sing it as lark or wren—”

(“That’s exactly the manner,” the Purseman yelled
In a loud parenthetical claim,
“That’s exactly the way I’ve eternally held
How to christen a Park with a name!”)

“‘But oh, frazzled Popper, beware of the day
When your Park host a Loser! For then,
Crowds will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!’”

“It is this, it is this that has hampered my heart,
When I think of the skipper’s last quote;
And my soul has been rent into many a part
While my confidence, frankly, is smote!

“It is this, it is this—” “You have said that before!”
The Purseman indignantly cried.
And the Popper continued, “I’ll say it once more:
It is that that has ruined my pride!

“I appear at the Park—every night after dark—
There to execute wonderful feats,
It may be a dream as the home of my team,
But I see the most barren of seats,

“And if ever I play for a Loser, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
Crowds will softly and suddenly vanish away
Leaving emptiness none can endure!”

Hit the Fourth
The Blunting

The Purseman looked grumpy and wrinkled his brow:
“Why didn’t you say this before?
It’s a total absurdity, mentioning how
We could lose all our fans by the score!

“It is hard to believe there’s a reason to grieve
With a club with the mettle of ours,
But certainly, though, you’d have uttered your woe
Ignoring our surfeit of powers!

“It’s a total absurdity, mentioning how—
We could drop every crowd at the Park.”
And the man who was mocked merely answered and talked,
“Such a fear has been drowned by your bark.

“You may charge me with slumping—or void of skill—
(We may all hit a scuff at times)
But a slight to my voice or a weakened will
Was never among my crimes!

“I said it in person—I said it in crowd—
I said it in strong and in meek.
But I wholly forgot (I regret this aloud)
That money is what you speak!”

“It’s a pitiful claim,” said the Purseman, whose eyes
Had been rolling with every word:
“But now that you’ve stated these errors or lies,
All debate would be simply absurd.

“The rest of my speech” (he explained to the club)
“You will hear when you’re ready to hear it.
But the Park, it awaits! so get out of the tub!
You have all got to chase it with spirit!

“You must travel by taxi, and travel by air,
You must travel by farthing-and-pen;
You must open its locks with your underwear;
You must sing it as lark or wren!

“For the Park’s a peculiar feature that must
Be filled with the people nearby.
Do all that you can, and I certainly trust
We’ll be lifting a gonfalon high!

“For Minny and Paul—I should hardly proceed
When it’s I you should act for, in sooth:
And you’d best be preparing the things that you need
To battle it out. That’s the truth.”

Then the Poleman, on whims, stretched his lank and his limbs,
Preparing his body to throw,
The Popper waved bat, curved the brim of his hat,
And pondered opponents he’d know.

The Plug and the Pitt-boss were polishing cleats,
Each wanting a grip in the dust,
While the Puppy kept on reaching base and such feats,
Displaying remarkable trust.

And the Puppeteer tried to appeal to the side,
Untangling too many a string,
While trusting his cases to keep reaching bases
And that type of acceptable thing.

The bringer of Power was practicing grip
And sequences sure to confuse,
While the Pediatrician relaxed on the trip
And laced his more comfortable shoes.

But the Penguin was nervous, and dressed in his gear,
A mitt and the other key tools—
Said it felt like the club had been waiting all year,
While the Purseman derided them “fools.”

“You could use me, get me in the order,” he said,
“All depends on the man who is throwing.”
Said the Purseman, just watching and resting his head,
“That will do; hurry up and get going.”

The Puppy was happily skittering on
In seeing the Penguin in bulk,
And even the Popper, still anxious and wan,
Showed his pleasure, refusing to sulk.

“See the plan!” cried the Purseman, who heard (in a way)
The Penguin unfasten his mask:
“If we meet with a Tiger, that desperate prey,
We shall need all our strength for the task!”

Hit the Fifth
The Puppy’s Lesson

They traveled by taxi, they traveled by air,
And they traveled by farthing-and-pen;
They opened its locks with their underwear;
They sang it as lark or wren.

Then the Penguin contrived an ingenious plot
For sending opponents to curses,
And had fixed on a key that had passed by a lot
To surely befuddle the versus.

And the very same plot to the Puppy occurred;
It would work, he was sure, to the max;
But neither conveyed, by a glimpse or a word,
They had chosen identical tacks..

Each moment they pondered on naught but the Park
And their reaching it soon as they could,
They were focused on finding their target by dark,
So they verbalized less than they should.

But the curses grew plenty and plentiful still
As the long afternoon became colder,
‘Til (simply from tenseness and less of good will)
One (both?) grew a little bit bolder.

Then a scream from the east like a terrible beast
Made them see their opponent come near;
The Puppy turned gray at the darkening day,
So, too, did the Penguin feel fear.

He thought of his youth, many years in the past—
An eager and innocent time—
The source of the sound came to mind with a blast
Like a seven a.m. morning chime!

“It’s the call of the Tiger!” he fervently cried,
(This man they considered all brawn.)
“Now, the Purseman would tell you,” he muttered aside,
“I should lay you out flat on the lawn.

“It’s the call of the Tiger! Keep watch and take heed;
You will reckon its tone is not nice.
It’s the call of the Tiger! That’s all that we need,
For now we play out our advice.”

The Puppy had followed with listening ear,
Attendant to every noise,
But he suddenly felt an additional fear
And began to lose focus and poise.

He felt that his plan could be fully achieved,
But he somehow lost grip on the steps,
And the only thing now that could all be conceived
Was practicing physical reps.

“First one, and then two—that is all I must do,”
He said, “with my swinging and sprints!”
Once again at a pace of a turbulent race
That had caused his companion to wince.

“The plan can be done,” said the Penguin. “It had.
The plan must be done. It is true.
The plan shall be done! Bring a stylus and pad;
Whatever you’ve on you will do.”

The Puppy brought tablet and tapping and tips,
A battery charged to the full,
While others around took electrolyte nips;
By now the great noise was a lull.

So engaged was the Penguin, he paid not a hint
Of attention while tapping the screen,
And explained on the pad the whole plan they both had
So the Puppy could tell what he’d mean.

“If This is the focus for keeping us in—
A convenient topic of name—
Then the Other, and That, and That Other to spin
While the Whole shall deliver the game.

“This result, if we multiply out through the week
By an Integer Sent to a Void,
We are sure to achieve any answer we seek
And no one at all is annoyed.

“The method above I am glad to expound
While we have it discussed on the pad,
But I know it is most analytically sound—
So don’t overdo it a tad.

“In these minutes I’ve shown what my mind has now blown
And treated as magic or mystical,
But with time still to spare, I am happy to share
How this is all purely statistical.”

In his confident way he proceeded to say
(With perfectly normal ability;
Such a clear calculation would cause a sensation,
Upsetting most normal civility),

“And to tame a fierce Tiger, that desperate prey,
Since it lives in perpetual nettle:
It seeks as we do that excitable day
When it’s hoisting a trophy of metal.

“But it knows it has lost for too many a year,
It never will suffer alone;
And divisional rivals it never holds dear;
It’s a fact—and a fact we’ve all known.

“In favor, they’re cooked when we’ve excellent play,
More cooked than a walleye in pan:
(Some they are best in a miserable way,
While others prefer them a ban.)

“We beat them with lumber, we beat them with arm,
We can top them all over the field
While keeping our talent alive from the farm—
To preserve all the hope we’ve revealed.”

The Penguin would gladly have talked all the day,
But the time for such talking did end,
And he grinned with delight with the beamiest ray
In discuss with the Puppy, his friend.

And the Puppy agreed, both in plan and in joy,
Their camaraderie no one could touch;
For his friend had communed their remarkable ploy
In his words that amounted to much.

They returned with a smile, and the Purseman, with guile
(So it seemed) and a surge of emotion,
Said, “This tactic can aid all the plans we have made,
But it’s mine that are tops of the notion!”

Such friends, as the Puppy and Penguin remain,
Have seldom if ever been known;
At home or away, they’re a link of a chain
And are rarely encountered alone.

And when quarrels arise—as one frequently finds
Quarrels will, for a stressing duration—
The plan ‘verse the Tiger returned to their minds
For a constant of pleasant elation!

Hit the Sixth
The Puppeteer’s Dream

They traveled by taxi, they traveled by air,
And they traveled by farthing-and-pen;
They opened its locks with their underwear;
They sang it as lark or wren.

But the Puppeteer, ready for starting the game
While the Puppy continued his plan,
Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the building of shame
He’d been warned of when noontime began.

He dreamt that he stood in a dugout of Stone
In the Park, where the seats remained bare;
On their paint-spackled green, not an arse could be seen,
And the charge of desertion was fair.

The Press Box had proved, and with nothing awry,
That the stands were deserted when found,
And the Mound kept repeating the how and the why
That resulted in emptiest ground.

No excitement had ever been even expressed
And it seemed that the Park would be done,
While the limestone Facade took a permanent rest
With no butts in the chairs—not a one.

The Uppermost Deck had the widest of views
(In a literal case all the while),
And the silence enough could distribute the news
Resulting in nary a smile.

“You should know—” said the Mound, and the Park would resound
With echoes, and not a thing more;
“Let me tell you, my friend, that a passion may end
As a franchise decays to a bore.

“In the upcoming Season, the crowds may be light
With a club that has hardly competed;
But with upward Achievement and competent fight,
You can grant that you’re never defeated.

“The fanbase Desertion one cannot dispute,
Nor can blame, with financial withdrawal
(So far as to whom rabid fans choose to root)
By the Miser whose purse is a crawl.

“My poor club’s own fate now depends on too much,”
And the Mound took its place in the dirt,
And directed the Features to ponder and such
On fervent unenviable hurt.

The Facade and the Deck remained in their place
As the Park remained quiet and mute,
And so it remained, with the quietest face,
No one present for someone to root.

Not a cheer could be heard for the Dugout to find,
Not the rudest of expletive yells,
Not a soul in the vacant, grand Park; would it mind
To provide its own whistles and bells?

Was the Park simply hurting, and had it just groaned
From the weight of the silence and hush?
When these thoughts landed HEAVY, the silences moaned;
The grass became suddenly mush.

Was the Park under sentence, or utterly still,
Unable to mutter a word?
Were there spirits at play on this rubber-topped hill?
Just the beat of one heart could be heard.

“There’s a fandom for life” came an audible voice,
“And fans who will give what they’re given.”
But few will rejoice, because some take the choice
Of rejecting a club that’s not driven.

And this deep consolation was suddenly firm
When the Plate came with vocals sublime,
To inform what it seemed that would have to confirm:
There will be fewer fans for some time.

The vibe in the air was of agonal anguish,
And the Park felt unsure at the last
Of how long its foundations would tiringly languish,
How long must its bleacher seats fast.

Thus the Puppeteer slept, as the silences kept
Repeating, consistently clear,
‘Til he woke from his mourn with a furious horn
Which the Purseman was blasting in ear.

Hit the Seventh
The Poleman’s Fate

They traveled by taxi, they traveled by air,
And they traveled by farthing-and-pen;
They opened its locks with their underwear;
They sang it as lark or wren.

And the Poleman, returning with confidence new
And a sharpness reserved for a shark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
As he made for the gates of the Park.

But while he was moving by taxi and air,
A Velosnatch came on the breeze
And grabbed at the Poleman, who tore through the square,
For to dodge it was hardly an ease.

He offered a bargain—he offered to check
(Not in error) his tendons for stretch,
But the Velosnatch merely appeared so to wreck
And make the great Poleman a wretch.

Without any pause—to destroy a keen cause
And bring him to tepider ground—
It tore and it rent ‘til his muscles were spent
And suddenly little was found.

The Velosnatch fled as the others appeared,
Brought on by the clamor all borne,
And the Purseman remarked, “What was that that you feared?”
While constantly tooting his horn.

He was tired in the arm, and they saw with alarm
The least likeness to who he had been;
And so low was his speed that opposing logs teed
Off often, as springtime has seen.

To the grimace of all who were present that day,
He stood up with his elbow in ice,
And with strain in his motion attempted to say
Why his stuff could no longer suffice.

Still he took to the mound—on Floridian ground—
And threw with determinant mood;
It was far from insanity, chaos, or vanity;
He was simply refusing to brood.

“We shall bring him along—not the worst has gone wrong!”
The Purseman exclaimed with a jolt.
“We have lost most the day. With no further delay,
We must get to the Park; let us bolt!”

Hit the Eighth
The Vanishing

They traveled by taxi, they traveled by air,
And they traveled by farthing-and-pen;
They opened its locks with their underwear;
They sang it as lark or wren.

They shuddered to think they might not make it home,
And the Puppy, excited with glee,
Raced on with an eagerness shunning the gloam
For the wonderful sight to see.

“There is Boo-catcher shouting!” the Purseman said;
“In a joyful, ecstatic old hark!
He has leapt in the air and is nodding his head;
He is certainly at the Park!”

They gazed in delight, while the Penguin exclaimed,
“He was always a talented guy!”
They beheld him—their Popper—their hero untamed—
On the top of a hill raising high.

He stood on his peak, looking dapper and sleek,
Before frantically charging ahead
(As if proudly immortal) Direct to the portal
While they readied to follow his tread.

“It’s the Park!” was the sound that first came to their ears
And was almost too good to be true!
From them came a torrent of laughter and cheers
Before hearing the words “But we’re Lo—”

Then, silence. Some fancied they heard on the wind
A weary and miserable sigh
That sounded like “-sers,” but the others declare
It was only an echo gone by.

They joined him and hunted ‘til darkness came on,
But they found not a kernel or mark
Of anyone else who was present from dawn
‘Til the Popper had entered the Park.

In the midst of the word he had dreaded to say,
Came a wave of the fanbase ennui:
Crowds had softly and suddenly vanished away,
For the Club was a Loser, you see.

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