Moe Berg

by The Village Elliott

Moe Berg was both a catcher and spy,
And the Big Leagues’ most erudite guy.
Spoke languages many,
But couldn’t hit in any
Unless curve ball hung up “lettered” high.



Published in Boston Red Sox, Cleveland Indians, History, Limerick, Minnesota Twins, Players | Link to this poem | No Comments

Literal Relief

by Jim Siergey

Chicago is wondering where
the Sox got their “firemen” from.
I only can ponder that they’re
from Fahrenheit Four Fifty-One.


Published in Chicago White Sox, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments

Yankees 8 / Tigers 4 – 08/27/2014

by Stephen Jones

Detroit spent good money for an ace
To make their play in the pennant race,
But the Yankees made a mess of Price:
He was shell-shocked and put on ice.

Detroit’s future is fast getting fuzzy,
Or, as Yogi once said, “It gets late early.”
When it was all said and done tonight,
In Motown The Price Was (Not) Right.


Published in Detroit Tigers, New York Yankees, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | 4 Comments

On Watching Buster Posey Hit Homers #6 and #7

By Stuart Shea

Not to be nosey,
Buster Posey,
But what has taken so long
For your bat to shower
The Giants with power?
I miss that “Bye Bye, Baby” song!


Published in Players, Pure doggerel, San Francisco Giants, Stu Shea | Link to this poem | No Comments

Tony Gwynn

by The Village Elliott

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling and his “Gunga Din”

You may talk of those who bat
With reflexes like a cat,
Like Tony Gwynn, whose prowess was high art.
Played right field for childhood team,
Padre skipper’s Gold Glove dream,
A southpaw five-tool player, ‘ead and ‘eart.
Destined for the ‘All of Fame,
San Diego son became
Legend playing locally for twenty years.
Though big money thrown his way,
Stayed for “’Ometown Discount” pay,
Around the league fans paid him with more cheers.

Fans cheered, “Gwynn! Gwynn! Stalwart star!
Your sweet swing strikes spheroid far.
Though twice Series ring eluded,
When your career concluded,
Your .394 best season since World War.”

Padre uniform he wore,
Was nothing much before
And rather less ag’in when he retired.
But his two-toned Padre ‘at
An’ eight-time entitled bat
Was all the field equipment he required.
When Dog Days of Summer’s ‘eat
Has grim gamers in retreat,
Avoid high ‘eat that makes one’s average skid,
‘Eat didn’t wither, make Gwynn faint,
Hit another where they ain’t,
And it dropped in like three thousand others did.

Fans called, “Gwynn! Gwynn! Tony Gwynn!
Eighth bat title you did win
Puts you in the Pantheon
For most NL titles won,
Only you and ‘Onus Wagner, Tony Gwynn.”

‘Allowed ‘all in Cooperstown
Honors players of renown,
With special nod for “Inner-Circle Member,”
Those elected first time out,
For the writers have no doubt
They’re Immortals whose careers fans need remember.
One Immortal who slid in
Was the Padres’ Tony Gwynn,
Second San Diego son to get so tapped.
Though first two less bat crowns wrest,
William’s lifetime average best
Though Gwynn’s.338 best since Ted first uncapped.

Fans cried, ”Goodbye, Tony Gwynn!
End in town where you begin.
Now you play on Field of Dreams
Where Immortals field the teams.
You belong on their first ballot, Tony Gwynn.”

The Village Elliott lives in Stinson Beach, California. His bio is a poem in itself–watch this space for further details.

Published in History, Players, San Diego Padres, Songs and Parodies, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

On Watching Buster Posey Hit Homers #6 and #7

Tony Gwynn

The Yankee Contracts Poem

Some Things in Baseball Aren’t Timeless

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