Mets 11, Phillies 1. We destroyed the Phillies. That is all.

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One Hundred and Sixty-Two Games

 

The Captain tiptoes away from third base,

getting a lead. The pitcher looks once, twice.

Then the curveball, but a quick squeeze bunt!

The batter takes off down the first base line

while the Captain sprints from third,

straight at the catcher’s chest, who fumbles

the ball as the Captain slides around the tag

to score and he stands up, uniform caked with clay

and mirrors the umpire’s call of safe!

with arms outstretched, a smile on his face.

The season is a war, and every game is a battle,

and with that squeeze bunt they win the day,

they take first place in the pennant race,

and the Captain punches the air in victory

because it all came down to that moment—

every game in April fought to draw even with a rival

sometime in late September,

and then a quick small-ball play

to take the lead, like a jab to the nose

in the final round, and in the dugout

the men hug and slap asses and cheer.