It would be a mistake to assume that, because of this illustration, I am a Boston Red Sox fan. Rather, as a loyal lover of the New York Mets as group reincarnation of the old Brooklyn Dodgers, I am a rabid New York Yankees hater. And any team that humbles and destroys them as the Red Sox did this autumn is worthy of our admiration. And now that Pedro Martinez is coming to the Mets, he will surely, somehow, continue his noble mission.

Following is an excerpt from Roger Angell�s recent article in The New Yorker, included here in order to show that baseball can inspire dramatically artistic writing.

��The Sox catch up � a solo Ortiz home run, and, in replica of the night before, another Millar walk, a hit-and-run advance for the inserted Roberts, and a delivering single � provided only brief cheer and on we went, at 4-4, past a fourth hour, then a fifth, with close calls and botched bunts, and stranded hopes and runners piling up among the slowly turning innings. Low on fuel, the Ameriquest advertising blimp headed for the barn. The game�s eventualities at last brought Wakefield on to pitch for the Sox in the twelfth. As a starting knuckleballer, he generally paired with the second-string catcher, Doug Mirabelli, a nanny for the wanton pitch, but removing the powerful Varitek from the line-up was not an option here. As we know, the knuckler devises its own flight path after it leaves the pitcher�s hand, and Sheffield, the Yankee leadoff man in the thirteenth, struck out on a fritillary that darted away from his bat and Varitek�s mitt as well, delivering the batter safe at first. A force-play out put Matsui there in his place, and then, oopsie, over to second on another Varitek embarrassment, and �yikes! � to third, on still another sailer. Smiling wanly, the rooters saw a fresh end: the Red Sox eliminated by a butterfly. Sierra, at bat with two on and two out, swung through the three-and-two and missed it cleanly as Varitek, a mastiff after a song sparrow, jumped at the ball and swallowed it clean. Not much later, the game finished on a glorious anticlimax, a run-scoring, broken-bat bloop by the ever-up, ever-useful Ortiz.�

And now for my own contribution:

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��������������� Bad Advice

Times, my friend, are changing,

Rhymes, old boy, are ending,

Clocks all tick your name,

Wines all taste the same.

Letter-writer, blot your tears,

No mail's arrived for you in years.

Walk no sombre streets unlit,

Wear nothing that doesn't fit.

Private property's still secure,

Debts will never make you poor,

Nets will always snare their fish,

Lovers are sure to hiss and kiss.

The Mets will rise again,

We only don't know when,

The rains will come again

And so will Brother Ben.

Don't go if you can help it,

Or you're sure to get a ticket,

Keep your boots on tight,

Don't make love all night.

Deplore the fornicators,

Doomsday indicators

Begetting beggars, they say,

In a most deplorable way.

Never vote for change,

Prometheus rechain,

Ignore the mysterious call,

Forget them one and all.

Remember, she loves you not,

Remember, you need her not.

Think not on it a lot,

Shoot before you're shot.

FTS