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Fully one-third of your Unfit Times staff considers itself to be of the set that ranks baseball up there with Shakespeare in terms of entertaining drama. And though wholehearted enjoyment of this fact escaped us until relatively recently, over more than a quarter century of baseball watching, we have been treated to plenty in the way of examples of our favorite sports‘ ability to trump the bard in terms of nearly every experiential emotion.

We expect to be treated to par in this regard when Pedro Martinez and Andy Pettitte do battle — ah, battle — this evening in Game 6 of  the 2009 World Series. And though we have no real (read: Red Sox-related) rooting interest in tonight’s proceedings, we are fairly certain that there is nothing better in the whole wide world of sports than watching two skilled veteran hurlers go head to head.

In honor of the event, we’ve decided to finally bring the two highest forms of drama together. Enjoy.

Another part of the field.

Enter MacPettitte.

MACPETTITTE.	[Three days rest I am given.] Why should I [not] play the Roman fool and die On mine own sword? [Ah, but] [w]hiles I see livesPhillies, the gashes Do better upon them.

Enter MacPedro.

MACPEDRO.	Turn, hell hound, turn!
MACPETTITTE.	Of all men else I have avoided thee. But get thee back, my soul is too much charged With blood of thine [teammates] already.
MACPEDRO.	I have no words. My voice is in my swordchangeup, thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! They fight.
MACPETTITTE.	Thou losest labor. As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen swordchangeup impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crestsNational League lineups; I bear a charmed life [potent offense, and short right field porch], which must not yield To one of woman bornwho suffers the “who’s your daddy” chant.
MACPEDRO.	Despair thy charmmystique and aura, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macpedro was from his mother’s wombyour fearful chant Untimely ripp’dreleased.
MACPETTITTE.	Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow’d my better part of manmade me awkwardly jostle my rosin bag! And be these juggling fiendsYankee ghosts no more believed That patter with us in a double sense, That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee.
MACPEDRO.	Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o’ the timeserve up a hanging breaking ball to Ryan Howard. Or perhaps Chase Utley. We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrantwashed-up mercenary.”
MACPETTITTE.	I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’sHamels’ feet, And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. Though Birnam Woodadvanced age and poor use of the minor league system be come to Dunsinanethe Bronx, And thou opposed, being of no woman bornno fear of the “who’s your daddy” chant, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macpedro, And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

Exeunt fighting. Alarums.

We here at Unfit will not be so presumptuous as to write the ending for a game that hasn’t happened yet. But, we’ll remind you, readers, that Shakespeare called for MacBethPettitte to be beheaded, and his line to fall.