An MMO Fan Shot by Wall Flores
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of indignant lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a clicking,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at opportunity’s door.
‘Tis some fluke streak,” I muttered, “tapping at opportunity’s door —
Only this, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Summer,
And each separate dying member wrought its ghost upon the Citi floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought sorrow
From the 2016 books surcease of misery and sorrow — sorrow for the lost playoff door
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name playoff door —
Reachless here for evermore.
And then the silken mad uncertain rustling of each win ran certain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Tis some false premonition entreating entrance at my wild card playoff door —
Some late premonition entreating entrance at my wild card playoff door; —
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Mr,” said I, “or Misses Met, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was forlorn, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at opportunity’s door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the 8th inning I stood there peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Playoff Door?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Playoff Door!” —
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul saw Grandy Burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my Acela lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this hot streak I explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this hot streak explore; —
‘Tis only a win, Only a win and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the remote, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a parakeet, a bird of the saintly days of 1984;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my playoff door —
Perched upon a bust of Tut just above my playoff door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this mighty bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy hopes be torn and broken, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient haven wandering from the Nightly Score —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on this season’s grim tour!”
Quoth the Parakeet, “Mets in 4.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above Opportunity’s Door —
A Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above discovered his Lost Playoff Door,
With such name as “Mets in 4.”
Author’s Note: I do hope you enjoyed my adaptation above. A large credit goes to the great Edgar Allen Poe, as this version has drawn numerous excerpts from his acclaimed literary work. Overall, I thought it was a tremendous commentary into the psyche of the troubled and haunted Mets fan. Nonetheless, I remain confident, as I have throughout this season, that the parakeet that has returned will perch itself upon our playoff door. This will lend us to our ultimate resolution: Mets in 4. 🙂 Let’s Go Mets!!!
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This Fan Shot was contributed by MMO reader and upstanding member of our community Wall Flores. Have something you want to say about the Mets? Share your opinions with over 25,000 Met fans who read this site daily.
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