[Bumped to Front Page for Shakespearean Photoshopitude. RTP]
The tormenting struggle between life and death in the form of a manager's choice of starter or bullpen
To call, or not to call, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to extend
The innings pitched of unmatched starter fortune,
Or bullpen arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To close, blown saves
No more; and by closing games we bring end
The heart-ache, and thousands in chorus of boos
That flesh is heir to: ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To close, to save;
To save, and yet with who? - ay, there's the rub:
For in the bullpen call, what arms may come,
When we take the ball from our immortal aces,
Must give us pause - there's the respect
That makes calamity of a workhorse.
For who would bear the sight of lesser arms,
Untimely four-pitch walks, babip fairy scorn,
The hangers and bangers, the worm burners,
Disheartening mound presence and the spurns
That patient merit of botched holds abound,
When he himself might his dilemma solved
With no bullpen call? Who trusts Danys' hook,
Cannon fodder, the faithful grow weary,
If not for fear of added inning plight,
Set pitch counts crossed bourning minds wary
Of disabled stints and radar gun dips
And makes us rather bear those bullpen arms
Than tempt the fate of spirit Tommy John?
The quandary does make cowards of us all,
And thus the push and pull of gut and book
Pored o'er with eager native hindsight,
Yielding results of great pitch and moment,
Inclinations turn awry with playoffs mind,
Changing course of action. Foot on dugout stair,
A plodding mound journey of thought awaits.
Pray thee BaseBa'al! Nymph, in thy field of dreams
Be all my sins, gut and book, remembered.
I am quite sure that ole Billy Shakes would be proud.