Doesn't it seem like the Mets have been playing one endless game since Monday, with the score Opponents 39 Mets 36, heading to the top of the 47th? They've been in a mostly empty stadium that isn't Shea; the fans are mostly Mets fans; they score early but it doesn't seem to matter; they give up runs, they give back runs, they have runs tacked on to them; they are thrown out, they fall down, they are carried off; we endure total and complete apoplexy…yet because the other team isn't much good either, somehow they sometimes win.
Oh — and sometimes it rains.
As familiar as one game atop another on this numbing road trip has felt, however, sometimes you see something you've never seen before.
These are the strangest of possible words:
“Martinez to Mota to Schoeneweis.”
Trio of Met arms, two for the birds,
Martinez and Mota and Schoeneweis
A starter whose rehab's complete
Two pen men we urge take a seat
Friday night in Miami they accomplished their feat
“Martinez to Mota to Schoeneweis.”
And sometimes you see something else you've never seen before.
Twenty-three was iconic
Like Junior Griffey's nerve tonic
No Met had ever managed to hit in more
Cleon started the tale
He'd share it with Mike Vail
They established a streak
That others would seek
To break but fail
Until Huuuuu-bee!
Went twenty-four consecutive
Until Huuuuu-bee!
Went to the plate and was selec-u-tive
Hubie Brooks set the hit streak mark
Occasionally would hit 'em from the park
Our man Huuuuu-bee!
He hit in twenty-four…
Along came Piazza
Stronger than a matzoh
There wasn't much this catcher couldn't do
Batting was his forté
Like hearing Hendrix play
While swinging for fences
He upset defenses
Ev-e-ry day
Mike Piaaahhh-zza!
Went twenty-four consecutive
Mike Piaaahhh-zza!
Became the record's co-executive
Mike Piazza tied the hit streak mark
Occasionally would hit 'em from the park
Along with Huuuuu-bee!
He hit in twenty-four…
Now there's a big old asterisk
By the name we all know as David Wright
Dave streaked across two seasons
But for fairly plain reasons
A two-year streak simply doesn't count
It's not the Wright amount
Moises Alou is
Not some Johnny Lewis
Or any random garden-variety Met
He healed his aching quad
Drained base hits from his bod'
At forty-one
He's having fun
Where no Met's trod
Moises Ahhhhh-loo!
Went twenty-five consecutive
Moises Ahhhhh-loo!
Has issued a direc-u-tive:
“Brooks and Piazza…they were fine;
But the Met hit streak mark you see is mine”
Has hit in twenty-five
(Straight games!
Straight games!
Moises Ahhhhh-loo!
Has hit in twenty-five
Straight games!
Straight games!
Alou's the guy…
Who hardens his hands…
Oh gross!
Hit more!
Hit more!)
Sincere regards to the inspirational figures of Franklin P. Adams and Terry Cashman, parodied with affection in this space, I assure them.
I have to wonder whether Robert Frost is resting peacefully this morning.
His loss.
On a more serious note, your poetry here reminded me of my late mother, a closeted Yankee fan who once changed the words to a church hymn, replacing “hallelujah” with “Matty Alou.” I remember attending mass and singing Matty's praises:
Matty Alou
Matty Alou
Everybody sing Matty Alou
For the lord has risen
It is true
Everybody sing Matty Alou
Thanks for conjuring up this repressed memory.
Twenty-six (consecutive) thumbs up for your mom, Matty and Moises.
In one season, no less.