Matt Marton-Imagn Images
Because aside from yesterday's win, 2025 has so far been a wasteland.
by T. Oilet
I. The Burial of the Dread
April is the cruelest month, leading
Spirits out of the doldrums, catching
Opening Day afire, numbing
Dull hearts to spring pain.
Winter cooled the stove, churning
Minds in September’s fall, breathing
So little life from old goobers.
Summer surprised us, getting set for a divisional
With a trophy at stake; we stopped showing power swings,
And lost all the sunlight, over the vast Target,
And slid softly, and walked from the bower.
Wir hatten keine Ausdauer, keine Hoffnung, nur Würstchen.
And when we were growing, dome to make our rooftop,
At Humphrey’s, with pennants recent in mind,
And it was magic. We said, Minny,
Pauly, this is right. But down we went.
Come October, we were let free.
We left, out for the night, the doomed loss a splinter.
Where are the hitters clutch, the batters grown
Out for their stormy clubbing? One of them,
We cannot see, alas, for we know only
A heap of broken promises, tolled by drumbeats,
And the arm scene is no helper, a cricket chirping brief,
And the dry tones resounding slaughter. Only
We are shattered under a great shock,
(Coming under the splatter by this great shock),
And we can show you nothing different from either
A batter in mourning striding at strike two
Or a batter now leaving striking at three too;
I will leave you here in a barrel of dust.
Die Füße ruhen
Auf dem Kissen,
Die Leute buhen,
Weil sie wissen.
They gave us higher hopes many years ago;
They watched as our higher hopes whirled.
—Yet when they faltered, late, with our highest hopes fallen,
Our hearts dull, with a stare met, we could not
Speak, and our minds failed, we were neither
Conscious nor waked, and we knew nothing,
Heading into the dark of night, the silence.
Ohne Geld das Feld.
Mister Nepotist, fetid billionaire,
Had the squad sold, nevertheless
Is known to be the tightest bunghole an owner,
With a slicker horrid heart. Here, said he,
Is your pay, cut down by Thirty Million.
(Those are turds that make his eyes. Look!)
Here’s a Lower Budget, the Team is on the Rocks,
The team a lesser station.
Here is some guy with three saves, and how you should Feel,
Right here from the smooth-tongued serpent, is wizened,
Giving thanks, for something to get us in the black,
Which I am beholden to keep. I will not find
Some Dang Cash. Take less an offer.
I see crowds of people, walking out of the seats.
Thank me. If you fear me Mr. Falvey / Zoll,
Know I can be a horror show myself.
One must be so thrifty these days.
Funereal City,
Under the cold air of a winter gone,
A crowd flowed out of Target Field, not many,
I had not a guess it could numb so many.
Pride, often so frequent, now was veiled,
And each fan left behind a vacant seat.
Flowed out the gate and down North Seventh Street,
Through air along the skyway through the towers
With a dead hush along the dragging line.
Thought I saw something true, and shouted, crying, “Twins fans!
“You who were with us at the end of Gardy!
“Those days we finished last here down in Target,
“Should we be down and out? Are we doomed this year?
“Or are we done and lost, forever dead?
“Or will the slog be dense, no end to pen,
“Or when it fails we start it up again!
“You! sick of it
au cœur!—mon marasme,—pas fier!”
II. The Game’s a Mess
Repairs we wrote in, from a season blown,
None would be started, as an ass
Held out his pockets sewn with silken lines
From which a golden Credit Card peeked out
(Another in his wallet pricey thing)
Scribbled the names of minimal priced free agents
Projecting blame upon his finances
A bitter blubbing fool knows he cheapens,
From bat and bases dropped in dust and losing;
In hopes of tempering a dolor’d mass
Unwanted, by a strange pathetic ballroom,
Stuffy, pompous, or wicked—stubbled, consumed
And drowned by cash in torrents; stirred by his square
Possessions not the Twins though, self-commended
In fattening bank account digit aims,
Blowing smoke making fans far wearier,
Stirring the chatter never offered feeling.
Knew he would make an offer
Of greenbacks pouring, craving a team to own,
In which there might be farther dollars spent.
Before the long-week season could be played
Or build a winner here on Minnesota’s green
Where change would fill them well, such a marvelous thing
And all rejoiced; yet now a frightened wail
Fills all the city with contrivable noise,
And still he lied, and still we wait for news,
“Thud thud” on urging ears.
And still another clump of time
Is sold in empty halls; early morns
Stayed out, silent, barely a tomb enclosed.
Debts reshuffled in the stare.
Under a twilight, under a flush, unfair
And out of wiry joints
Thrown to the birds, and words are scattering still.
“The Twins are bad tonight. Still, bad. Stay with me.
Seek with me. What is there now to speak. Speak.
Why are you preening Joe? Why preening? Why?
I always know why you are preening. Green.”
I think we are in crap valley
Where the state has lost its hopes.
“What is the score?”
The Twins nil, the foes four.
“What is the score now? How are the Twins doing?”
Losing again losing.
“Do
“You score nothing? Do you win nothing? Do you have plans for
“Nothing?”
I remember
Those are turds that were his eyes.
“Are you to thrive, or not? Is there nothing left to spend?”
But
O O O O that Fresh Reaganite bag
It’s so prosperous
Such bright phosphorous
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
“I shall shut up like a clam, with debts to meet
“And my nose up, so. What shall I do tomorrow?
“What ever shall we do?”
The hot dollar again.
And if he deigns, a closed selling door.
And you shall play the game for less,
Signing weaker guys and waiting for a saint to tie the score.
When rich Justin dropped the ball, we said—
We didn’t temper words, we cried to Joe ourselves,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
But now he’s coming back, thinks himself a bit smart.
He wants to say what to do with the money he gave to
The office thin of teeth. He said, I am here.
I settle in charge, still, and I am all set,
He said, I say, I can’t pay a meager sou.
But no more can I, we said, I have no big wallet,
You doze upon billions for years, we want a good team,
And since you won’t give it up, some other will, we said.
Oh will they, he said. Certain o’ that, we said.
Just as long I can bank, he said, and give me a thick book.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
If you don’t like us sell and be done with it, we said.
Others can spend and build if you won’t.
If your wallet is soft, you’d better get back to selling.
You ought to be ashamed, we said, to be cruelly cheap.
(And family a dirty one.)
I can’t do it, he said, you’re in the wrong place,
It’s the bills I took, to settle debt, he said.
(He’s told lies already, and still he lies to the Poors.)
The banker says I can be all right, but I’ll never pay the game.
You are a foppish fool, we said.
Well, your wallet won’t keep you a man, so it is, we said.
What’ve you a ballclub for if you won’t go build ‘em?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Well, my one main wallet is holed, with not enough mammon,
And the guys should make a winner, they have the duty to get hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
G’bye Joe. G’bye you. G’bye Joe. G’bye.
Ta ta. G’bye. G’bye.
Goodbye, lazy, goodbye, rich lazy, goodbye, goodbye.
III. The “Fired” Sermon
The season’s dawn is broken: the vast lingering grief
Settles deep into the fanbase. The wind
Crosses the cold field, unheard. The wins may be started.
Sweet Games, come sweeping, may we send a tune.
The Open Day is empty bargains, blanker faces,
Still taking whiffs, vacant losses, sooner it ends
We know the rest are lonelier bummer nights. The wins are departed.
And the next, the opening set Missouri has wrecked us;
Unhearted, we stressed know the rest.
By the waters of Duluth I sat down and slept...
Sweet Games, go sleeping may we end it soon.
Sweet Games, go sleeping, for we keep not proud nor strong.
But coming back in a loud blast we hear
The batters of the foes, the luck we dread and fear and fear.
A thought crept quickly through the machination
Dragging the chiming telly to the brink
While we were wishing for a joy to tell
On an early evening now amid the madhouse
Losing another thing of horrid dreck
Another thing to bother messed and boring.
White Stockings raking on Chicago ground
A long laugh full of pity though we bear it,
Batting round to cap doom rolling, here and here.
But in this lack through time and time we steer
The sound to blame and firings, who is sacked
Early by Mr. Pohlad suitcase packed.
O the doom shine bright on Mr. Pohlad
And on his balance
He points the blame for lack of talents
Et Ô le pauvre milliard, souffrant de la variole!
Whiff whiff whiff
Thud thud thud thud thud thud
So poorly dropped.
Erreu
Funereal City,
Under the cold air of a winter long
Mr. Huge-In-Firings, the billion person
Unshaken, with a pocket full of currence
I.o.u. Nothing: docking slips in sight,
Has to see a massive clench
In buttholes on the Finance Sheet who tell
Morrow might be bleakened by eventual fall.
At the silent hour, when the lights in black
All blinded to the field, still and bruised and injured wait
For the backseat drop in playing,
I fire breeziest, unwind, job in between two minds,
Some man we think will be not best, to be
At the silent hour, the leaving hour arrives
Onward, and brings the failure home to see,
The blighting soon to be mine, clear the wreckage, light
The stove, and play out who can win.
Out of the Twins goes failure as it spreads
The trying tribulations crushing the fans’ full days,
On with the band that’s filed (rightfully dreads)
Striking, whiffing, gammy throws, bad plays.
I fire breeziest, unwind in bleaker thuds
Aggrieved and mean, and we know the rest—
I unabated for I know the best.
We, the numb fans homuncular, arrive,
A ballpark addict’s curse, for none is fair,
All of us low and whom endurance quits
Like a quick spat from a tepid billionaire.
The game is turning vicious, and it stresses,
We feel untended, we are bored and tired,
Forever all engaged in hopelessnesses
Which feel forever proved, though undesired.
Trust has eroded, we all mark the dunce;
Ignoring stands we count along the fence;
Insanity has unified at once,
To know this makes no jot of difference.
(And I fire breeziest have to make the call
To act and drag the axe to luckless head;
I know the mass of plebs will suffer all
But why ought one to care what they have said.)
The standard words of patronizing bliss
Will be to say, this guy who cares a bit...
In turn we look a moment as we pass
Along the way to hear a verbal smother;
Our brains observe the news and quip
en masse:
“Well now he’s gone: and we have another.”
When numbing humans steeped in folly stand
To catch another Passan tweet, online,
We still observe the interlocking brand,
And turn our logic brains to undermine.
“You try and try and see you’re high and lonesome”
And amid the park, up in the highest seats.
O Pity pity, we can sometimes feel
Amid the local bars on smoky pub seats,
The ever droning of a fan to win
And the chatter and the patter all unleashed
Where wishers cheer and swoon: where the halls
Of Summit Brewing hold
Inexplicable wonder of hoping bright and bold.
The winner gets
Joy and laud
The pennants lift
To the tallest pole
Hoisted
High
And freeing, swing as the fans are awed.
The pennants float
Waving flags
For every team
Save the one in rags.
Waiahaha waia
Wahhaha waialala
We wish to bet we’re better
Upping scores
The perfect storm
A bitter shell
Dread and cold
The swift fell
Crippled both stores
Lousy drip
Very bad team
We feel like hell
No power
Waiahaha waia
Wahhaha waialala
“Damn the dusty breeze.
Loss very boring. Nothing to do
No kidding. There’s nothing to aim to please
Flattened on the floor as we fester like poo.”
“My team is abhorrent, and I start
Bawling to weep. After games we vent
And rant. Don’t promise a ‘true heart.’
We make no comment. Aren’t we fully spent?”
“On Target plains.
Only connect
Batting with batting.
The broken splintering of lumber pains.
The Twinkies numbing Twinkies who project
Splatting.”
blah blah
A loss again is lame
Yearning yearning yearning yearning
Don’t score now sucking we’re out
Don’t score now sucking
Yearning
IV. Death by Batter
Pablo the Physician, a spring to dread,
Has got to throw the ball, and indeed he shall
And forgotten the loss.
Though current hard to see
Stick with hope for pitchers. In morose morale
We pass the stages from our rage to truth
Grasping that he hurls cool.
Minny and Paul
O two who name the team and look to win more,
Consider Pablo, who with his hands can avert the fall.
V. What the Blunder Said
After the Twins were swept beneath the Arches
After the old Comiskey smacked their faces
After the blubbering concluding March is
More shouting and more crying
Wither and malice and determination
For blunders of spring to be quick recounted
Team that was living is now dread
Fans unforgiving are now trying
With so little patience
Here is just slaughter we’re only rocked
Rocked into slaughter ‘til we hit the road
The road sliding on down to Central bottom
At the bottom we’re rocked for more slaughter
If without slaughter we could leave the brink
But getting rocked one cannot leave but sink
Heat is high defeat is in the hand
As there is only slaughter and getting rocked
That bottom home a curious feat we cannot hit
There is not even silence at the bottom
But minds looping blunders with all pain
There is not even solitude at the bottom
But all of our faces jeering hard
Our groans and sneer-cracked grouses
If without slaughter
No longer rocked
But we are rocked
And all is slaughter
This spring
We fools are getting rocked
If we could cut down on slaughter only
We could win later
And hard bats ringing
But all is slaughter all getting rocked
Where the lineup just swings in a high breeze
Slip stop slip stop stop stop stop
But there is all slaughter
Who is the third who always whiffs behind you?
In the hole, there is always one and two no better
But when I look ahead to the high mound
There is always another one whiffing behind you
Swinging fast at a white marble, missing
I do not know whether no luck or talent
—But who is that ever swinging bad for you?
What is that ball high in the air
Rumor of opponent celebration
Who are those hatted foes cheering
From the dugout steps, stumbling on concrete
Thrilled by the way the game is going
Why is it flying over the fences
Whacked and sent out a burst in the violent air
Ringing showers
The worst of them After All is slanderous
Again a Blunder
Funereal
A demon drew his gutstring bow one night
And fiddled cursing music on the Twins
And bats with gaping chasms never hitting right
Missing, and all begins
To crawl dead onward to a vacant fall
And stumbling down to fail the playoffs
Toward the ever-riching ass, who threatens layoffs
With noises pinging out of empty whispers and his pompous yells.
In this accursed hole down at the bottom
With innate doom right, the grass is stinging
Under the cloudy grays, a voided craphole
This is an empty craphole, long may the wins roam.
It has no win though, only poor swings,
Dull tones can thrill no one.
Nobody shocked calling us goofy,
No no please no no no please no
In a flash is frightening. Then a damp gush
Bringing rain
Target was sunken, and the fans leave
Weighted in pain, while the laughs loud
Rang in the distance, just a win I want.
The thumpers crouched, lungs in silence.
Then spoke the blunder
SELL
Selfless: what has been given?
No end, no staking a heart
The awful feeling of a placid surrender
With a mind of dooming can never take back
From this, and this only, have we resisted
Never ready to pen our obituaries
Or forgetting the spin of a magnificent slider
Or in the team speaking and the team listening
In our April wombs
SELL
Selenite: I can calm the sea
Churning the storm once and churn more slowly
We know what we see, solo and tandem
Working what we see, solo yet in tandem
Knowing we might fall, but keeping our humor
Alive in the moment we poke and score we can play this
SELL
Selection: The team responded
Daily, in a band after we fail we score
We see a calm, we all surely responding
Daily, when excited, getting a needed hit
With controlling hands
I looked upon the score
Wishing, with a team akin to trying
Shall we at least set a plan for scoring?
Three, four, knock at the door, knock at the door, knock at the door
Poi abbiamo pulito le calze
Quando vincimus metallum—O holler holler
Le Vicomte des Ours sur le toit du château
These fragments show we know what we are doing
Why then not hit too. Geronimo fly again.
Selfless. Selenite. Selection.
Shall we — shall we — shall we
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