MLB All-Thanksgiving Team

by Jim Siergey, Hilary Barta and James Finn Garner

1B Stuffy McInnis
2B Damian Rolls
SS Joe Bean
3B Spud Johnson

OF Lawrence Plenty
OF Turkey Stearnes
OF Cranbarry Bonds

C    Yam Yaryan

RHP Paul Stuffel, Tom Butters
LHP Bob Sprout, Beany Jacobson

Mgr. Pie Traynor

 


Published in Food, History, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments

See You Next Year!

 

Facebook-The-baseball-life-is-simple-h-t-2b64ee

(Quote by Bill Veeck, of course.)


Published in Uncategorized | Link to this poem | No Comments

– finis –

by Millie Bovich

The Astros and the Dodgers were the Hatfields and McCoys,
And they battled on for seven games, those wild and scrappy boys.

And as the dust is settling with the Astros waiting rings,
The crowd erupts with cheering and the “you know” lady sings.

Now the well-worn mitts are on the shelf, the champagne warm and flat,
And “Astros Champs” emblazoned is on every this and that.

The bats are finally all in racks, the balls are all in bags,
The uniforms are cleaned and pressed, their player names on tags.

The scoreboard shows no numbers, the stats are all in books,
The vendors too have closed up shop, their aprons hang from hooks.

The managers are calm once more, the cleaned-up shoes in rows.
The game’s America’s pastime, that fact no one can oppose.

The towels are all washed and dried, the showers only drip,
The bat boys are all back in school, the umpires hear no lip.

The season’s been exciting, we’ve been taken to new heights
And will the last one out of the locker room, please — turn off — the lights!

 


Published in Fans, Food, Houston Astros, Los Angeles Dodgers, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Say It Is So, Joe

by Hilary Barta

“Buck’s been canned” are the words which we pray.
You’d be banned if we fans had our way.
We can’t stand you, now please stay away.
Here’s a grand, there’s a highway, go play.

 


Published in Broadcasters, Fans, Pure doggerel, St. Louis Cardinals | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Roadtrip

by Stephen Jones

The summer’s done, the season’s done,
And you’ve been on a very long journey.
The rising road no longer winds so much, and
On both sides, the once-lush fields are empty.
Autumn flickers like a golden fish.
You drive between here and tomorrow.

.                                                  And

It’s no surprise, that you pass roadside stands
Selling end-of-season distractions.
You see peach baskets full of analytics
(For wintering over, like last year’s apples),
Crates clearly marked Hustle and Muscle,
(But with dates that have now expired),
Stacks — like cords of wood — of guaranteed
Live arms (these also root-cellar bound),
Boxes and boxes of spins and grips, and
Canning jars of freshly made good stuff.

.                                                  And

Up ahead, on the road’s gravel shoulder,
Just before the winter turn,
Fired managers hold out their thumbs.

.                                                  Meanwhile,

A dusty red pickup honks, then passes you.
It’s full of young talent, like day workers, and
Heads back to the farm.

 


Published in Lyric, Management, Players, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Say It Is So, Joe

Roadtrip

Off Season, On the Bright Side

Series Unction

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.