RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
knothole gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleachers seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet-swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame!  For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest In Peace Ebbets Field.
Rest In Peace Brooklyn Dodgers.


Published in Ballparks, Fans, Food, Former Teams, History, Los Angeles Dodgers, Management, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Mike Pelfrey is a

By Stuart Shea

He said all spring he wanted to start,
But his pitching this year smells much like a
Don’t matter who’s batting, he’ll just get a hit.
It’s clear the guy just pitches like


Published in AL Central, Minnesota Twins, Players, Pure doggerel, Stu Shea, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Days of Future Past: Blue Jays Edition

by James Finn Garner

Let’s all give a hearty three cheers
For Toronto’s first berth in 23 years.

What was it like in that bygone age?
Steroids in baseball were not yet the rage.

Our phones were attached to our desks.
Melting ice caps did not pose a risk.

Bill Clinton had not been impeached,
And Saturn had yet to be reached.

Newt Gingrich somehow held power.
New York still had its Twin Towers.

But some things were the same long ago:
Bryce Harper still had a toddler’s ego.


Published in Former Teams, History, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel, Toronto Blue Jays, Washington Nationals, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

Compliment from a Rival?

by Stephen Jones

David Ortiz speaks
“You can’t ignore the Yankees”
Postseason blessing?


Published in Boston Red Sox, Haiku, New York Yankees, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

One Fine Day

by the Village Elliott

For Hank Gowdy

Gee Golly, Boy Howdy,
I just met Hank Gowdy,
Great War hero and World Series star,
Was a Miracle Brave,
Till he joined in first wave,
First pro swap unis, march off to war.
In left field today sit,
With my dad and my mitt,
Can’t imagine a day could be finer,
Till I heard the bat crack,
Heard crowd roar, “Back . . . back . . . back . . .”
I caught home run hit by Ralph Kiner.

I was barely a teen,
Caught betwixt and between,
But grew up to accumulate stuff.
Still my Great Legacy:
Photo: Hank, Bro and me,
One fine day below old Coogan’s Bluff.


The VE explains:  “In July, Dick Volk showed me a photo of himself as a young teenager. It was taken at the Polo Grounds in 1948, and included his older brother, posing with 53-year-old New York Giants coach Hank Gowdy. It was another era. In fact, it is exactly 100 years since Hank led the Boston Braves upset sweep of Connie Mack’s ‘White Elephants’, three years before he became the first Major Leaguer to enlist for WWI. My friend met Hank three years after Hank mustered out a second time, having re-upped as an Army physical education instructor for the duration.”

Published in Atlanta Braves, Fans, Former Teams, History, Oakland Athletics, Pure doggerel, San Francisco Giants | Link to this poem | No Comments

Compliment from a Rival?

One Fine Day

If We Lose the Playoff Game: An Angry Poem

Never Give Up . . .

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.