The Cruelest Month

by the Village Elliott

Like the Giants, I’ve been in a funk,
Like World Champions, my stat line has stunk.
Is this start of the schnide (1)
of bunk odd-year-long ride? (2)
If it is, then this season is sunk.

“April’s the cruelest month,” poets say.
For the Giants, so far, been that way;
Lately, I’ve dealt with clown,
Wouldn’t let my dauber down,
Had last laugh on his busted squeeze play.

Choir sings that “You’ve gotta have heart,
To be champion, must play the part.
Season’s end, Who’d a-thunk
Team would overcome funk,
Have last laugh after ‘on the schnide’ start?”

PS: At home after first day off Champs get,
First-place Bums swept in tense three-game set;
Jints cut three games off lead,
As the Dodger Blue bleed.
Mattingly learns the Jints ain’t dead yet.

———————————
(1) “The Schnide”: what Jews call a losing streak;
“On the schnide,” like the Giants last week,
Means, “Long losing streak on,”
“Off the schnide,” once they’ve won,
Comes from Yiddish, not Latin or Greek.

(2) Around here, hear this “Odd-Even” jive:
Giants’ dynasty: Three of last five.
Crowns in ‘Ten, ‘Twelve, ‘Fourteen,
Odd years “bunk: Shitty Scene”,
No playoffs, but in even years thrive.

schnide: A scoreless, hitless or winless streak. A team or player gets off the schnide when the streak is broken. (Urban Dictionary).

bunk: Shitty, Bogus, counterfeit, nonsense, meaning wack or extremely strange, originating on a low-rent island in Maine. For something to be bunk it must make you want to cry laugh hysterically or, more commonly, run for you life. (Urban Dictionary).

 


Published in Fans, Limerick, San Francisco Giants | Link to this poem | No Comments

Baseball

by Miles Hart

The luscious green grass,
The hard brown dirt,
The paper white bases,
All create a baseball field.
The player up to bat so calm and cool under pressure
The game tied at 3 with two outs
and a runner on 3rd,
The game on the line.
The first pitch
comes right down the center of the plate,
Swing and a miss,
strike one.
Pitch number two
a curve ball dropping two and half feet,
Strike two!
Pitch number three
a change up on the outside corner of the plate.
Crack!
The ball is hit.
the ball travels through the air
as the crowd standstill,
You could hear a pin drop.
Going, Going, Gone!
Homerun!
Homerun!
They win the game.
The crowd storms the field in joy
of the win as they celebrate.

 

Miles Hart is a seventh-grader at Hawthorne Scholastic Academy in Chicago.


Published in Ballparks, Fans, Free Verse, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

Unwanted History (Orioles/White Sox, April 29, 2015)

by Stephen Jones

In Baltimore today,
Because of instability,
Baseball’s being played
Behind close-door security.
With no fans’ cheers or jeers,
With no waves or foam fingers . . .
It’s a sad baseball first.

In 1857, 16 teams
Were organized in New York.
And nationwide, by ’65,
It was well over a hundred.
History says, even in war
No game’s been played
Without some fan present.

But today Camden Yards is empty–
It’s empty of its soul.
Ticket holders have been told
To stay away
Because of violence in the streets–
And the only way to see the game
Is via cable at home.

I’d rather throw a baseball . . .
Not a rock.

 


Published in Ballparks, Baltimore Orioles, Chicago White Sox, Fans, Free Verse, History, Scandals, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 3 Comments

Baseball in Baltimore

By Stu Shea

A game without a crowd?
That won’t be very loud.
And should we still feel proud
As a town hides under a shroud?
Despite manicured fields and flags unfurled,
You can’t shut out the world.

 


Published in Ballparks, Baltimore Orioles, Chicago White Sox, Fans, History, Pure doggerel, Scandals, Stu Shea | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

Cubs Game with Abuelo

by Brandon West

Abuelo,
the last time we had fun
was at a Cubs game.
One of Sammy Sosa’s
last games.
He did great!
The only thing that I remembered
is that he hit a homerun into deep
right center.
When he touched home plate, he touched
his head,
his lower chest,
then right shoulder,
then left shoulder,
kissed the side of his
hand, then pointed
to me,
like I was blessed
to play baseball.
I don’t know, but maybe I am.
Cubs won, 6-5 against one of the teams to beat,
the Philadelphia Phillies.
Then the next thing I know,
Abuelo started smoking. Everything went downhill from there,
he was diagnosed
with type 4 lung
cancer, it was spreading
to his bones.
The last time I saw him was when Abuela was making
breakfast, he got up, with his neck brace and walker,
went to the kitchen,
asked Abuela for something
and left.
He left me,
and his soul left us.
I would always remember
that green-eyed,
kind-hearted person.

 

Brandon West is a seventh-grader at Hawthorne Scholastic Academy in Chicago.


Published in Ballparks, Chicago Cubs, Fans, Free Verse, Youth | Link to this poem | 4 Comments

Baseball in Baltimore

Cubs Game with Abuelo

If Tex is Really Back

2012 Giants

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.