The pitcher knew it would be
A competitive Cy Young race this year,
And that sportswriters cast their ballots
Before his post-season pyrotechnics.
He knew any one of the three finalists could take it,
And that he probably had the longest shot.
His ERA was a mite high, his record not quite as stellar.
But we all construct grand narratives
Celebrating our own greatness.
It’s an honor just to be nominated,
He told the press.
But the pitcher believed.
Oh he believed
Until the announcement
Made his eyes dead, his voice a low monotone,
His heart a cauldron of rage.