clock menu more-arrow no yes mobile

Filed under:

The Mid-Morning Trade of Ben Revere [a hyper-link'd poem]

One if by draft, and two if by trade

Peter Lyons

Listen, my Phils fans, and you shall hear,

Of the mid-morning trade of Ben Revere,
On the sixth of December, in Twenty-Twelve;
Hardly a fan bothered to delve
Into the details, or cracked open a beer:

Rube thought to himself, "If these Rangers can't
Make up their minds to-day,
I'ma hit the Rule 5, and be adamant
I'ma get a young, cheap speedy guy who can play,--
One if by draft, and two if by trade;
And Boras, on the opposite side will be played,
And then hit the lobby to spread the alarm
To all of clients in the bigs and the farm,
That I've sewn up my wallet and mean them real harm."

Then he said "Fuck 'em all!" and without hardly tryin'
Unlocked his phone and texted T. Ryan,
Just as the sun streamed into the room,
Where ellipticals were spinning deals like a loom,
Michael Young, Rangers man-of-third;
A righty bat, with pay terms absurd
Who fields a struck ball like it was a turd,
But despite all of that, may not be the worst
Given the guy he has over at first.

Meanwhile, his friend texted back pretty quick
Countered and offered, from his hotel lair
A deal, with some tweaking, that just might be fair;
Rube's mind! How it then crackled and reeled,
And started to plan, and throw in a neat trick
Throwing off Twitter'd hounds in a fancy new snare:
He would load up on guys to play the outfield.

Then he went to the conference room of the Drafty Old Five,
Down in the 'vator, with marble and brass,
Peeked in the mirror at his old player's ass,
And thought of how good it was to be alive
and to be The Phils' Guy to move all the money,
And have the big balls, hold the bat - kinda funny.
He greeted his minions, down here in the muck
Each one, he thought smugly, a terrible schmuck
And clawed into the hive for some sweet prospect honey.

Beneath, on the draft floor, sat the GMs,
With laptops, and earphones, and binders galore,
Checking websites and stats - a chore
most detestable, as it mussed up his head
with numbers his minions kept all neat and clean,
So he played Angry Birds until number fifteen,
And then, with a whisper, "We'll take Inciarte!"
A moment that always feels like a par-tay
with a magician who comes and casts a spell
Where a roomful of people look up. "The hell?
Are they doing? Those crazy old Phillies.
If they went and got him, where does that leave Tyson Gillies?"

Meanwhile, T. Ryan, afraid his deal would now fizzle,
Got on his own phone, so hot now it could sizzle
And called our man Rube and talked Ben Revere
And asked if players involved were for shizzle
Now he looked at the system both up and down,
And, for a laugh, asked after Dom Brown.
They talked for a minute about Jason Bay
Then he got to the point: "Gimme Trevor May."
And before old Rube could lock him in a trance
Without meeting his eyes, added: "And that includes Vance."
And lo! as he looked up, caught Ruben's smile!
They spat on their hands, shook, and Rube found
a new era! Post-Pence!
Two baby Secretaries of... Defense!

You know the rest. On the blogs you have read
How the Rangers' Third Baseman dithered and said
How he'd rather stay playing in the Arlington Mall,
And his teammate, the slugger's, market grows small,
Reducing the years of his contract to three?
We don't know how this could possibly be.
But maybe tomorrow this might possibly yield
One more guy who might play center field.

So onto the TV ran Ben Revere;
An outfielder, though small, who's a giant of men
and whose mug was on SportsCenter! Number 1 of Top 10!
A hitter of ground balls par excellence,
But whose range in the outfield belies a long schwantz.
So he's got a weak arm. What's your point?
He'll get better. He's just twenty four,
Cost controlled! What we need,
The fans will come round and cheer him. We'll hear
Wheels announce: "He got on his steed!
What a great catch by the great Ben Revere!"

h/t Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, and to Trev223 for kick starting me.