We want Joel Zumaya back. Thus, a poem!

With so many apologies to William Blake…

but not that many, because parody is fair play, Blakey m’boy.

The Zumaya

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In Comerica at night,
What so brave umpiring call
Could pick the spot of thine fastball?

From what minute finger twitches
Burnt the fire of thine pitches?
On what wings the seams did flutter?
How the ball made batters stutter?

And what shoulder, and what twist
Could hurt the sinews of thy wrist?
With flames upon thine arm now writ
What batters stand to look at it?

What the whimper, what the pout
Of the batters now called out?
What the curveball? Where’d it go?
You do not deign to pitch so slow.

When the stars threw down their bats
And gave up wins to our striped cats,
Did Leyland smile, your work to see?
Shall we give thanks to Dombrowski?

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In Comerica at night,
What so brave umpiring call
Could pick the spot of thine fastball?

Get better fast, Joel!

7 responses to “We want Joel Zumaya back. Thus, a poem!

  1. ivantopumpyouup

    I wish I was being taught this in my poetry class right now.

  2. They oughta teach you Robert Pinsky. “The Night Game”, ah, now there’s a poem. That man knows what’s what.

  3. You sooooo coulda ganked and used my shot of Joel to accompany this! It would’ve made me so proud.

  4. It is the perfect shot. I forget that you’re OK with the ganking! It is duly ganked. May his steely gaze give comfort and joy to all.

  5. What is this shot of joel that features his steely gaze and equal resolve?
    (Samara…. of course I love this poem. Swoon. I mean right, I’m sharing. )

  6. I shall not rest from throwing strikes
    Nor shall my bat sleep in my hand
    Till we have built a champion
    In Leyland’s green and pleasant land.
    William Blake, you so CRAZY!
    (And that is indeed one totally scary badass photo. I can’t WAIT to see him tear up Pujols et al.)

  7. Lovely. I have some family ties to the Tigers and will be rooting for them as a surrogate team. Besides, as a Reds fan, there is nothing worse than seeing the hated Deadbirds in the WS. I composed some poetry of my own a few days ago:
    Dear Deadbirds, how do I hate thee?
    Let me count the ways.
    I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
    My soul can reach with every ounce of might
    To the ends of Being and in every way.
    I hate thee to the level of everyday’s
    Gametime deed, by sun and stadium light.
    I hate thee truly, as the falling snow is white;
    I hate thee strongly, more than the hated Yankees.
    I hate thee with the passion put to use
    In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
    I hate thee with a hate I seemed to lose
    After my Reds were done,

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