World Series 2017, Game 7

World Series 2017, Game 7

By Steve Hermanos

*   *   *

Houston’s George Springer watches the baseball float wide;

And so it begins,

This World Series Game 7;


We’ve had a few of these 7s in recent memory;

The Giantsumgarner besting the Royals in a heart attack in ’14,

The Indians-Cubs marathon in the Cleveland rain in ’16;



Springer hits a liner along the left field line, double;


Bregman half-sac bunt to Bellinger;

Yu Darvish covering first,

Bellinger Frisbees it past Yu!

Springer scores;

Bregman to second;


Astros 1 – 0 Dodgers!


Bregman steals third on a napping Yu;


Altuve a pool-cue shot off the end of the bat, a la Bregman,

To Bellinger;

Who chooses to step on first rather than,

Nail Bregman at home;


Astros 2 – 0 Dodgers!


Yes, we are liking this,

Middle L. and I,

Appreciating the Astros, and,

As Giants and Yankee fans,

Don’t like Joc Pederson as much as I,

Didn’t like the Whinin’ ’dgers of ’77 and ’78;


What’s in 40 years?


Well, Clayton Kershaw’s doing Rockette kicks in the bullpen—

That’s different;


Anti-raciscm-school undergrad Yuli Gurriel,

Flies to right;


Bottom 1st;


If you’re askin’ me,

An 0-2 scoreboard,

Would focus the mind,

Of a champion;

So let’s see,

If these ’dgers,

Have that championship organ,



Astro pitcher Lance McCullers, Jr., slider, strike uno;

Chris Taylor launches a liner splitting Springer and Gonzalez,



Now it’s young Corey Seager with the old man’s back;

Seager K’s on a curve;


Justin Garden Gnome Turner,

Bald spots spreading as the games go along

(Lord, I know all about it);


And the gnome takes first;


Second and first, one out;


Cody Bellinger,

Looking to atone for his shenanigans in the neighborhood of first base;

Vicious cut, foul;

K’s on a curve;


Now it’s Yasiel Puig,

Just the best, IMHO;

You don’t mess with this guy,

But we shall see;

Takes a trio of pitches dotting the edge of the Fox TV rectangle;




Bases loaded with Trolley Dodgers;


First inning Level 10 tenseness;


Pederson swings for a grand slam,



Shot to Altuve,

Altuve soft-tosses to Gurriel;

3 O U T S;


Let us pause to consider,

While beer and pizza and trucks are seductively parading on the TV,

The ’stros,

Birthed in ’62,

(the same year as I),

Christened the Colt .45s,

(I retain my original name,

To the best of my knowledge);


They’ve never tasted a championship,

These 55 years, (this, their 56th season of trying);

So much futility and Nolan Ryan;

So much futility and Bagwell and Biggio of the Steroids Era;

So much futility and the Rainbow Uniform so loud and terrible it’s great;


This Houston,

With a surreal cube of Hurricane Harvey water dumping on it,

More water in the air than air,

These Houston folk need this,

Championship quest,

To quell the mind of black mold,

Insects the size of dinner plates,



Top 2nd;


Brian McCann,

The type of catcher every team needs;

Block bullets in the dirt;

Encouraging his pitchers like cornerman Bundini Brown encouraging Ali,

Hit just enough;

How he refrained from swinging at that curveball,

I’ll never know: walk;


Marwin Gonzalez;

Sharp liner to the right-center fence;

McCann like a gravel truck on an uphill,

Grinds to third;


Josh Reddick chops to second to Bellinger,
McCann must remain at third;

One out and pitcher Lance McCullers at bat,


I’ll let Joe Buck tell it:

“An RBI for Lance McCullers and it’s three nothing;”


Logan Forsythe fails to play on the grass,

Sets up in the dirt,

So McCullers’ soft grounder,

Scores slow McCann;

For a Dodgers fan, Forsythe should be charged with a crime;


Forsythe must toss the ball to first;


Astros 3 – 0 Dodgers;


Gonzalez on third, two outs;

George Springer, a perfect swing;

Left-center homer,

To a cluster of bleachered Astros fans;


Astros 5 – 0 Dodgers;


There goes Yu Darvish,

This isn’t why they acquired him from the Rangers;


Now it’s Morrow;

Pitching for the 7th time in 7 games;

Strikes out Bregman;


The Gods of baseball don’t take runs away,

Just to make things fairer;


Astros 5 – 0 Dodgers;


But in this World Series of the Juiced-Up Baseball,

5 runs,

Isn’t that much;

In ’77 it woulda been huge,

Soul shredding,



Bottom 2nd;


Forsythe swat through an infield hole into left;


There’s Kershaw warming up in the ’pen,

Looking to atone,

They’re all looking to atone,

These Dodgers;


Austin Barnes;

Chopper to flying Bregman, out at first;


Forsythe on second, one out;


Kike Hernandez hitting for Brandon Morrow,

No tomorrow for Morrow;

“A weapon the Astros no longer have to face,”

sayeth brilliant commentator John Smoltz;

And it’ll be Clayton Kershaw emanating from the bullpen,

For the 3rd;


Kike H.,

Baggy uniform gets HBP;

Second and first, one out;


And we’re back to leadoff man Chris Taylor,

Line drive to shortstop Correa,

Forsythe commits the sin of flinching towards third,

Correa flips to Altuve,

Forsythe is—

Tragically for ’dgers fans—

Out at second;

Double play;

Inning over;


That’s the second stupid decision,

For Logan Forsythe;


And they’re rejoicing in soggy ole Houston;


Top 3rd;

It’s Kershaw,

Having talked himself into the game;

Nobody’s in baseball is Superman,

Except Madison Bumgarner;


Altuve flyout to centerfield;

Correa popout to Puig in right;

Yuli Gurriel, getting’ booed;

Kershaw is awarded the benefit of the doubt on a questionable strike three;


Our game,

To alleviate our worries from truck-driving terrorists,

And a presidential terrorist,

Twisted minds bent on destroying lives;


Bottom 3rd;


Seager whacks it to right-center, awkwardly halt-crashes past first, single;


Turner gets plunked again, this time near the pine tar smudges on his back;


Seager on 2nd, Tuner on 1st, no outs;


Cody Bellinger,

Swinging for the fences,

In this age of swinging for the fences;

Strike Trois;


Now A.J. Hinch removes Lance McCullers—

I ain’t liking it—

He’s thrown only 49 pitches,

Is pitching just fine;


Don’t do this A.J.!

But he does this;


It’s Brad Peacock after the beer ad,

And this dumb-looking spoof, “Orville;”


Brad Peacock, a good guy, but this makes no sense to me;


Puig sends it high and deep to center;

Puig spikes his bat,

Long out;


Third and first, two outs;


Joc Pederson;


Brent Strom jogs to the mound, pitching coach,

For goodness sake,

This isn’t planning the Invasion of Normandy;


Pederson, Peacock;

Strike three; three outs;


Top 4th;

Kershaw’s game,

Kershaw’s team,

Strikes out Brian McCann;


Marwin Gonzalez,

Bounces the ball past Turner to Seager, but Gonzo’s safe at first;


Here’s Reddick,

For some reason, Middle L.,
When he was Little L.,

Developed an irrational dislike of Josh Reddick;


“Why?” I asked many a time;

“I don’t know I just don’t like him;”


He was an Athletic, a Dodger, and now an Astro,

With a fifty million dollar contract;


Kershaw’s curve bounces in the dirt and kicks away from Barnes;

Gonzalez to second;


Reddick bouncer to Seager to Bellinger, out;


Brad Peacock has as much chance as I would,

Against Clayton K.;


And again I say,

5 runs,

Ain’t much in this World Series,


(Hey Applebees,

What is that mound of high-definition grease-on-a-bun,

And why would anybody exchange their legal tender for it,

Much less put it in their mouth?)


Bottom 4th;


Forsythe saws it off to the right;

First baseman Gurriel refuses to dive and get his uni dirty;

Bregman to Gurriel, one out;


In the first row, Larry King doesn’t look as jovial,

As his talk-show days;


Barnes popup to Bregman; two outs;


Kershaw to the plate;

The star gets a hand;


Since it’s L.A., he HAD TO take the wheel,

Drive the careening Dodger bus,

Try to overtake the Astros,
But I don’t think so;


Down 5 runs,

With 16 outs to score 5,

We’ll see if Kersh can do some offense;


Strike three;


Well, these Dodgers;

Can you feel sorry for billionaires?

Not really;

They last won it in ’88,

When I wore a younger man’s clothes,

“La da da diddy da,” sang Billy Joel,

But in reality I’ve got about half the same wardrobe,

And my wife is way-more wonderful than Christy Brinkley;


Top 5th;


Springer strikeout;

Bregman, strikeout;

Altuve Vs. Springer; Greatness Vs. Greatness; foul out to Bellinger;


And so,

My God,

There’s no baseball tomorrow;

They’re showing ex-smoker Brian and his Chantix—

Nicotine withdrawal drug—

Do they make Chantix for baseball?;


Well, Middle L.’s still playing this November;

I’ve got a bucket of baseballs,

23 of them,

Middle L. snagged them all,

Foul balls off local minor league bats;


High-quality leather feels good to toss;

I’ll throw him BP before the rains arrive,

Maybe tomorrow;


Bottom 5th;


Chris Taylor,

One pitch to Gonzalez in left; one out;


The Dodgers only know how to swing for the bleachers;


Corey Seager,

Out at second base, Jose Altuve’s biting his fingernail,



Red Garden Gnome Turner;

Peacock’s tossing the ball all over, mildly wild;


McCann visits with Peacock,

T-Mobile’s donating $20K for each homer,

Oh we don’t want to see that check;

Bouncer nicks off Bregman’s glove, single to center;


Another pitching change: Francisco Liriano;

How does A.J. Hinch know these pitchers can handle this?

Is there a room off the bullpen where a coach calipers,

Each relief pitcher’s balls?


Bellinger grounder to Altuve to Gurriel, out;
Third and first, two outs;


Here comes A.J. Hinch getting in his steps,

Pulling Liriano,

For no reason I can discern;


Now it’s Devenski,

The Lyft driver,

Who took A.J. Hinch to the ballpark this morning,

Pitching to Yasiel Puig,

Who already hit a homer off Devenski this World Series;


Puig fouls back a Devnski fastball,

Puig snatches at his bat;


(We get an in-game pimpup for a Wendy’s burger);


Little League liner to Gurriel;


A.J. Hinch hasn’t gotten burned,

So far:


Top 6th;


Kershaw remains with his finger in the dyke,

Correa looks like he’s trying to solve the Kershaw puzzle,

Correa grounds it through the infield to left;


Ken Rosenthal is going on about the Astros’ winning,

Their drafting, on a big tangent to nowhere;


Correa on second, one out;


McCann, fouling off Kershaw,

He, too, looking to figure;


McCann grounds it to short right-center,

Forsythe to Bellinger;


Correa on third, two outs;


Intentional walk to Gonzalez;


Mountain Man Gattis pinch hitting for Reddick;


Dodger manager Dave Roberts sprints to the mound for a confab;


Intentional walk to Gattis,


And here’s Cameron Maybin pinch-hitting for the pitcher with the bases loaded and two outs;


Turner nabs a little popup;


Bottom 6th;


The sun’s setting for these Dodgers;


Charlie Morton,

The millionth Astro pitcher;


Joc Pederson,

Bloop single to center;


Logan Forsythe,

A fastball on the corner, or just barely off, ball four;


Pederson on second, Forsythe on first, no outs;


Barnes; infield fly: I love that rule and trying to explain it;


Eithier bats for Kershaw,

Who successfully kept the dam from collapsing;


Eithier seeking ether;


Smacks the ball to right;


Pederson scores,

Forsythe to second, Eithier on first, one out;


Astros 5 – 1 Dodgers;


Here’s Taylor, strikeout; two outs;


Seager smashes into the ball,

Bat shattering,

A shard pinwheeling at Charlie Morton,

The ball pinwheeling to Carlos Correa,

Who fires to first, OUT!


(The bat shard slices at Morton’s pants’ thigh,

Just patting it);
Three outs!


Top 7th;


Oh we’re thinking back,

To the World Baseball Classic,

To March,

When we began viewing the pros this season;

Well the wheat is in,

The grapes harvested,

It’ll all be quiet tomorrow,

November, December, January,

Time to dip into the books of nostalgia;


Kenley Jansen, 7th inning,

Very odd,

But they’ve also got Sandy Koufax,

In the first row,

And they might need him,

Don Newcombe’s 91,

And he’s, too, in the house;


Springer smacks it to center,

Taylor makes a sliding grade A catch;


High cheese strikes out Bregman;


Here’s Altuve,

The littlest big man in baseball;

And that’s the beauty of this sport we love;

It’s a man with a stick trying to hit a 100 MPH ball;
It’s a man trying to field a 115 MPH grounder;

Ball four;


Stolen base;


Altuve on 2nd; two outs;


Correa; popup; three outs;


Bottom 7th;


9 Dodger outs remain;


Here’s Justin The Garden Gnome, popping up to first:


8 Dodger outs remain;


Cody Bellinger, with a thousand orange jerseys on the right side of the infield;

Why can’t these guys bunt towards third base,

Which is 95% as valuable as a homer;

Strike three;


7 Dodger outs;


Yasiel Pu-eeeeg;

With no one on base;

The most he can hit is a one-run homer;

Grounder to short to first;


6 outs; inning over;


You know,

I lived in NYC,

During 9/11,

And cheering the Yankees,

Cheered us all;


Game 4 in ’01,

Witnessed with my own eyeballs, ears, and brain,

Jeter becoming Mr. November,

And the crowd went crazy with catharsis,

You need the skin tingling, the mind delighting with amazement,


(Those Yanks lost in 7 the next week,

We were thrilled to care,

Through the final game of 2001);


And so, to all Houston baseball fanatics,

I’m rooting for you,

I hope you get your catharsis,

After all this biblical flooding;


Bottom 8th;


Charlie Morton, 31 pitches, looking fresh;


6 outs to go;


Joc Pederson, swinging for Long Beach,

Looks like he’s itching to go to Hawaii,

Strike three;


5 outs to go;

This is where,

Things can go weird;

Calling Mr. Steve Bartman…

(Google him, youngsters);


Fly to right, two outs;


4 outs to go,

And it’s quiet in Dodgerland;


Austin Powers Barnes,

Slices deep to right,

Cameron Maybin secures it;

End of inning;


And while they’re trying to sell us Eliquis (whatever)—

We’ll give Dodgerites their sympathy,

At 29 years with no championships;

O.K., enough;


Bottom 9th of this six-month season, seven if you include the WBC,

Organized ball;

Go grab your mitt, a baseball and an eager kid,

Toss it;


Astros 5 – 1 Dodgers;


Chasen Utley pinch hitting, Utley, gray haired and at the end,

Strikes out;


2 outs to go;


On the bench, Joc Pederson’s bewildered;


Chris Taylor,

Mighty cut and it seems the ball magically went through the bat,

Broken bat and Altuve scoops and throws—out!


Final Dodgerland Out;


Altuve to Gurriel, and that’s that;
The rocket blasts off,



The Astros hoot on the field,

Wriggle into drab-gray hoodies proclaiming their victory;


They led this game the whole way,

Most of it by 5 or 4 runs;


And it was like waking up to waters creeping into your home,

Gathering the baby and wading into the street,

The body of water moving,

Getting deeper,

You gotta feel with your sneaker for the pavement,

But nothing’s knocking you over,
The baby is dry,

And you’re across, to safety,

All those Trolley Dodgers flailing down the river;


Good for Verlander, Springer, Altuve, Maybin, Carlos Correa, A.J. Hinch, ex-Yankee Brian McCann, Charlie Morton, Carlos Beltran, Luke Gregerson, Gonzalez, Alex Bregman, ZZ Top bassist Dallas Keuchel, Lance McCullers, Gurriel, and a million Astros fans;


(Oh look!

Carlos Correa’s to the side,

On one knee,

Opening a ring box,

In the direction of a supermodel-looking woman;


Oh Correa!

You 23-year-old!

If, in six or eight or ten years your marriage corrodes into civil war,

The triumph of this evening’ll be destroyed for the rest of your life;


But, oh well,

Don’t listen to a poet,

As old as the ’Stros);


Houston, you’re gonna have a great party,

In a day or two,

And out here in NorCal,

We’ll hoist a beverage,

Crack an array of Halloween candy,

And toast you,



—End of poem




By Steve Hermanos

October 12, 2016


This is a poem that shouldn’t be happening,

That I don’t wanna write,

An abomination,

A disaster,

A horrible, horrible thang;


Oh you all know what happened,

That 9th inning bomb blasting apart our bullpen,

I can’t even type their names:







A 5-2 lead,

Into a 5-6 loss;




11 straight après-season series victories;


Now this 1 devastating loss to the loveable losers of a hundred and eight years,

The Cubs;


There, I said it;


So, we Giants fans have not felt the wasp-swarm-stinging since 2003’s slippage,

To the Miami Marlins,

Since 2002’s Game 6 collapse against the Angels of Anaheim;


Buster Posey, Madison Bumgarner, Skipper Bruce Bochy, amazing third base coach Tim Flannery, Tim Lincecum’s two no-hitters and two Cy Youngs, Cody Ross whacking 2010 playoff homers, Barry Zito gutting out a Game 3 victory versus the Reds, Travis Ishikawa sending us to the World Series in 2014, Panda Panda Panda, Edgar Renteria, Juan Uribe, Ryan Vogelsong, Matt Cain’s dominance, Joey Panik, Jeremy Affeldt & Javy Lopez in the bullpen, Brandon Crawford, Brandon Belt’s 18th-inning homer in 2014 versus the Nats, Casilla in ’14, Romo in ’12, crazy Brian “The Beard” Wilson;


It takes a whole team to win a team sport,

But I’ll go to my grave,

With visions of Buster Posey’s perfect swing hitting a grand slam off the Reds in 2012,

Of Madison Bumgarner pitching the late innings of 2014 World Series Game 7,

Of fat Panda digging out bullets at third and firing across the diamond,

Of fat Panda swatting two homers in Game 1 of the ’12 World Series off previously-feared Justin Verlander (and Panda added another),

Of fat Panda in foul ground catching the final out of Bumgarner’s Game 7,

Of my wife and son and I hugging and screaming in the upper deck at the ballpark by the Bay,

And at home,

So much baseball ecstasy.


—End of poem

—End of season

—End of dynasty





By Steve Hermanos



I’m freezing,

On the ferry,

1 am;

Somehow the back of my neck’s sticky with mustard,

Jeans splotched with spilt beer,

And a crushed spiderweb of blue cotton candy,

The boat rocks with revelers and sleeping kids,

The happiest boat in the world;


This is what happened, I think:


2nd inning;


Off Bumgarner, Bumgarner,

Who hadn’t let up a run in a post-seasons since Zachary Taylor’s presidency…

Arrieta knocks one high and deep to left,

Gonna be caught on the warning track, of course—

No, it falls, as if ordained,

Into the mitt of a fan in the bleachers,

A fan in a Cubs cap,

What an omen;


Is this how it ends,

This even-year dynasty,

All this joy and celebration?


3-run homer,




3rd inning;



On the mound looking like Bumgarner’s older cousin;


Denard Span double,

Buster Poser single;




5th inning;


Denard Span whacks a triple;

Finally, Brandon Belt doesn’t look so lost in the presence of the white pentagon,

Hits a sac fly;




8th inning;


Down 3-2,

And here’s another monster,

Aroldys Chapman,

Nine foot three,

Six hundred eight pounds of muscle,

Throwing the ball faster than a Lake Michigan cigarette boat;


Belt on 2nd, Posey on 1st, one out;

You’re telling me, Conor Gillaspie’s gonna be able to hit that bullet?


Gillaspie’s bat 180s the projectile over Chapman’s head, yes,

Over the outfielders,

To the wall,

A triple,

Scoring three;


At the rail,

Of the visiting dugout-boat,

Cubs skipper Joe Maddon,

Is chagrined;


We exit the inning 5-3,

But shoulda scored another on a Gregor Blanco doinker up the first base line,

When Brandon Crawford and Roberto Kelly were sipping espresso,

Chatting about Hawaii and the election,

Rather than trying to score Crawford;


Ah, the little frustrations make all the difference to winners;


9th inning;


Resurrected closer,

Sergio Romo,

Tosses a pitch,

Crumples to the ground,

Like God is stuffing his jack-in-the-box back inside;


Sergio pops upright;

Walks the leadoff batter;

Serves a cookie to Chris Bryant,

Who whacks a rainmaker to left,

It bounces off the six in edge of the car cutout;

Oh if the wall were three feet deeper!


Game tied, 5-5;


With so much closer trouble,

How can the Giants win?


Bottom 13th;


Mike Montgomery,
Journeyman Cubs pitcher,

Surrenders a double to Brandon Craw,

Joey Panik crushes the ball to centerfield,

Vast centerfield, keep getting larger,

But the Cubs can’t retrieve this one;


Crawford scores,




Giants win;


The boat’s docked;

Ernie the deckhand is exhausted and maybe drunk;

“Get off, Steve;

There’s another game,



—End of poem


October 5th, 2016
NL Wild Card Game
Giants Vs. Mets
Citi Field, Queens, New York


By Steve Hermanos


Bottom 8th,

Met Ty Kelley at second,
Two outs,
Dangerous Asdrubal Carerra liner—
Direct to Bumgarner’s glove,
Bumgarner pumps the bare fist, exulting,
In another October shutout;

He’s bound to the mound,
But he’s floating above the competition, the crowd,
Sucking in the Queens night air,
Avoiding takeoffs from LaGuardia,
Gazing down at the green-blue jewel in the gloom,
Gliding up above the air traffic,
The stratosphere,
Making silent eye contact with Christy Mathewson, Three Finger Brown, Rube Foster, Bob Feller, Bullet Joe Rogan, Walter Johnson, Jose Mendez (look ’im up!);

On to the 9th inning,
000 000 00,
000 000 00;

Jeurys Familia, the Mets closer,
51 for 51 in saves this season,
But fondly remembered in Kansas City for melting under pressure;
His face seems to indicate,
His underwear is moist;

Giants shortstop Brandon Crawford can get him,
And yes, Craw crushes a liner to the wall in left-center,
No outs;

Oh why, Mr. Bochy, why ask Angel Pagan to bunt?
Sergeant Angel who will take a hill under machinegun fire, solo;
Two fouls; three and two;
Slightly releasing Familia’s angst;

Come on Joey Panik,
In your hometown,
Wreck their night!
Fouling off the bat’s last millimeter,
Now a walk!
That kid’s tougher than upper Broadway circa 1977;

Oh Conor Gillaspie,
High far deep,
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Home run!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A bounce off the bullpen roof,
Smacking the eye of the Wise chip board;

Oh yeah we’re shouting like it’s six, four, two years ago!

T H R E E    R U N S;

Conor Gillaspie!

It’s quiet in Queens, and it’s never quiet in Queens;
Mets fan look like they’re witnessing the painstakingly-and-expensively-repaired family Mercedes,
Roll past the house hooked to a tow truck,
Bashed in once again;

At bat, Catfish Bumgarner cracks it high and deep to left—
Insult to injury?!—
No, caught at the fence;

Bummy’s stomping out to the mound again;


Cespedes popup to Pence;
Grandyman popup to Pagan;
A guy in the second row in a gray overcoat heading home;
TJ Rivera,
Strike one,
Foul ball,
Popup to Denard Span;

Don the champagne goggles,
The boys in orange are going to Chicago—
Don’t get me started!
But I’m started—
And brimming with thanks.

—end of poem



Conor Gillaspie
Hits one off the bullpen roof
Here we go again!


The Royal Blue Dot From Space




(11.3.2015 No.168 —


By Steve Hermanos






From the International Space Station,

Looking down,

At the fat part of America,

In an expanse of post-harvest dirt,

At the center of a splatter of concrete,

Blooms a mass of Royal Blue;


A million fans in the plaza of a city of 1.2 million,

That’s a nice batting average;


Well they waited 30 years for this,

In a league of 30 teams;

It only seems fair;


Jonny Gomes,

Who grew up playing ball 30 miles from where I’ve typed,

All these poems,

Who came aboard the good ship Royals late-season,

Who didn’t play a moment of the post-season,

Who played only 12 games,

Takes an American flag and announces,


“Hey, guess what?

Cy Young winner,

Not on our team—

We beat him;


“Rookie of the Year,

Not on our team—

We beat him;


“MVP of the whole league—

Sorry guys, not on our team,

But we beat that guy too!…


“We whooped their ass!”








From Mesopotamia,

To Troy,

To Yorktown,

To Appomattox,

To the Yankees and Dodgers and Reds and Cardinals,

To the end of the year,

The harvest,

Your birthday,

It’s an easy thing to get behind,

A celebration;


Why can’t we celebrate—

Look, I didn’t burn the toast!

Little L. beat me in chess!

I got a new job that doesn’t suck!

I bought great underwear on sale for $7!

My car is still running!

I’m not sick anymore!

No one’s bothering me!

I’m in love with my wife!


Bring in the stage, the marching band, the microphone,

A party so humungous,

They can see it,

From the Space Station.




(10.30.2015 No.160 —

By Steve Hermanos


It’s taken all this time,

’til the bottom of the 6th inning of the 3rd game

Of the World Series,

And finally,

The Mets send up Juan Uribe to pinch hit,

Uribe who won it all with the White Sox in ’05;

Uribe who won it all with the Giants in ’10,

Leading them when young, fat Pablo Sandoval

Ate himself out of the lineup,


Who wears his gunked-up batting helmet,

At a rakish angle,

A huge chaw in his cheek,

And might as well be sporting a gold hoop earring,

An eye patch,

A scabbard won in combat;

The pitch is up and away,

Uribe slashes it to right,

Knocking in Juan Lagares,

Sending Wilmer Flores to 3rd;

Mets 6—Royals 3;

At first base, Juan Uribe claps his hands:

Take No Prisoners!

(Mets 9—Royals 3)

(Series: Royals 2—Mets 1)

—end of poem



(10.20.2015 No.151 —

By Steve Hermanos


Yeah, I’d put it up there,

In miniature:

A tiny brass plaque:

October 20, 2015,

NLCS Game 3,

Top 6th,

Mets 2—Cubs 2;

We’d see Yoennis Cespedes,

The size of a Lego minifigure,

Leading off second base,

As Cubs pitcher & minifigure Trevor Cahill,

Does not look back at Cespedes,

And as Cahill flinches into his windup,

Cespedes blasts out of his toe-holds,

Kicking up dirt,

Accelerating to third,

Catcher Miguel Montero slings a throw towards third,

Cespedes dives head-first, SAFE;

Then, here, on the other mantel,

The one in the library,

With floor-to-ceiling books,

Oak ladders running to the top,

Bach spinning on the Harman Kardon turntable,

The Turkish rugs;

Above the crackling fire;

There’s mini Cepedes on third,

Trevor Cahill pitching,

Minifigure Met Michael Conforto swinging over the ball,

the size of the head of a grain of rice,

Strike 3!

The ball bounces past Montero,

Cespedes blasts towards home,

Conforto runs towards first as if he’s rescuing his wife’s baby stroller,

From the train tracks;

Cespedes scores,


How about an amazin’ cognac?

(Mets 5—Cubs 2)

(Series: Mets 3—Cubs 0)