Et Tu, Boog?

by James Finn Garner

Are modern baseballs really juiced?
Or are the players all strong like Moose
(Skowron)? Pure as a Babe (Ruth)
With no chems flowing in the sluice?

Hurlers have the (Vida) Blues
Wondering which pitch to use
But Ks are (Charlie) Spiking, too
Giving all their stats a Goose

(Gossage). So, is the baseball really Boof
(Bonser)? Is someone somewhere getting cues?
Whatever answer you may choose
We’re losing balls over the (Phil) Roof.

 


Published in Ballparks, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel, Scandals, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

Imagined Commentary During a Game

by Stephen Jones

During a game, a commentator —
an ex-ball player — once said:
a manager’s job is hard.

“OK, so you’ve got twenty-five
children in a dugout …
and each one wants to be
treated just so different.

“I mean, it’s hard … I mean,
they all love to play the game,
right? But when you got children,
I mean, grown men who mebbe

“don’t wanna grow up, well,
then the manager’s got to be
part teacher, part mentor …
and also some kind of juggler.

“And all this while skating on thin ice —
dealing with egos and tantrums
and you-name-it?… No, no thank you.
Hey, believe me, I’m glad I got the

“chance to play in big league games —
that’ll never go away — but dealin’
with all that other stuff? No way.”

 


Published in Broadcasters, Free Verse, Management, Players, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

Team of Extremes

by Hilary Barta

Versus Brewers, the Cubs couldn’t score
Then they blew out the Mets, runs galore
Either famine or feast
Docile lamb or fierce beast
Will they mewl at the Cards, or else roar?

 


Published in Chicago Cubs, Food, Limerick, Milwaukee Brewers, New York Mets, St. Louis Cardinals | Link to this poem | No Comments

How Cleveland Ended Baseball

by James Finn Garner

“Grandpa, tell me once again
How the Tribe could never lose.”
“Well, kid, in August of ’17
They was playing good, quick and loose,

“When the Boston Carmines came to town–
A purt good team, or so I heard–
Bauer climbed upon the mound
And crikey, a miracle occurred!

“Might’ve been magic, or a curse,
Or blasted divine intervention
But they plum forgot how to lose.
Game in, game out, no apprehension,

“The Tribe just kept on winning!
Like the sun a-rising in the east
When come the final inning,
Francona’s boys just rose like yeast.

“It’s been 15 years or more, I reckon,
Since that team has notched an L.
Never trailing nor choking for a second,
From first of March to closing bell.”

“Grandpa, what about the other teams?”
“They just broke up, one by one.
No league no more, because it seems
With no fair chance, the game ain’t no fun.”

 


Published in Boston Red Sox, Cleveland Indians, Fans, History, James Finn Garner, Management, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments

Motown’s Upton Funk

by Michael X. Ferraro

Detroit, you’ve got no Uptons left.
Justin’s long gone — of Kate, bereft.
Pray those front office moves are deft
Just like Verlander’s chin so cleft.

 


Published in Detroit Tigers, Pure doggerel | Link to this poem | No Comments

How Cleveland Ended Baseball

Motown’s Upton Funk

Would Triples Still Go There to Die?

I Am Some Body!

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.