(a baseball fantasy by a fan)

It is always a troubling, murky mystery
Why the Mets don’t have a better history.
In sixty years they’ve won the Series twice,
And for six decades that does not suffice.
Perhaps this year they will win it all,
But we won’t know until the Fall
Classic is played, and until that time
We can only fantasize inside of this rhyme:

The Mets and the Yankees are tied with three each
And here comes Game Seven, the crown within reach!
Senga is pitching each shutout inning
And the Mets by a score of 3-2 are winning.
Alonso and Lindor have hit homerun blasts
And the fans in the stands are hoping that lasts
Long enough to ensure a World Series Title.
To get to that crown, a great closer is vital,
As the Yankee hitters step up to the plate:
It’s Judge and Soto and Stanton . . . and Fate!
Then all of a sudden the trumpets are heard,
And Met fans in the stands pass on the great word:
In from the bullpen The Diaz is prancing:
Yank fans are shuddering but Met fans are dancing.
First up is the big man; here comes the Judge!
But after he strikes out, the score does not budge.
Next up is Soto, a really great hitter,
But after “Strike Three!” he’s left there so bitter.
The Yanks’ final hope is Giancarlo Stanton
And from the stands people can clearly chantin’
Singing and rapping words praying the closer
Will do what he does — for he is no loser:
Stanton ignores what the chantin’ implores
But Giancarlo’s wild swing misses ball four
And the Yankees have lost New York to the great Mets;
The Blue and the Orange, both rookies and vets,
Have become the new champs of the entire world.
Met fans’ eyes are moist as the flag is unfurled.

Wisdom tells us that we reap what we sow;
Based on that and this poem, we surely do know
That come ‘25, we’ll get two in a row!