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