Archive for June, 2007
Brett On, George Brett
by Sandy Marshall
Brett on, George Brett.
Pine tar would do
But that was never you.
Instead . . .
You chose Skoal.
Brett on, George Brett.
The homers you’d hit
And we’d never forget
As they’d land in the fountains of Kansas City’s Mitts.
BRETT ON, George Brett.
You signed a card one night
At a Mizzou game at Hearnes Center,
That’s right.
Bud Black was there too.
But you . . .
Were the main draw.
Yes you.
BRETT ON!
Posted on 6/29/07.
Barry Bonds #13
by Steve Fiffer
Tho’ his head is as big as a melon
And he soon may be pegged as a felon,
He seems not to care,
Will admit to no error…
No wonder B. Bonds just ain’t sellin’.
7/3/07
Here’s to the Men of Milwauk
by Stu Shea
Here’s to the men of Milwauk,
Who are making the baseball world talk.
There’s a Hardy man at short and a Gross in reserve,
While the pitching staff’s Sheets are quite billowy.
Bill Hall runs ‘em down while Craig will give Counsell
And Prince Fielder’s body is pillowy.
Yes, the Brew Crew is back in Milwauk,
Giving all its opponents a shock.
The rotation has been solid despite their less-known names,
And Francisco Cordero slams doors.
Though the roof of their park still sports a few holes,
The beer is the only thing that pours.
Yes, the Brew Crew is ready to rock,
Now that Bud Selig’s name’s off the block.
For Rod Beck
When we heard of the death of The Shooter
We all grabbed a beer and a smoke…
And we toasted the long-ago memories
And the quick way he had with a joke.
He’s dead, just 38.
It makes no sense
To those of us here on the outside.
Why him? He seemed normal.
Never formal,
So unaffected by the fame
Of the great game,
But sometimes worlds don’t collide.
For some, there’s no life after baseball.
For some, there’s no way to adjust.
So he left his wife and two children
In a cloud of motorhome dust.
He’s dead, just 38.
He died alone
In Phoenix, for God’s sake.
It’s got to be a mistake.
Sure, he liked a beer and his cigarettes.
That was part of his character.
But beneath the veneer
Of that which is legal,
it all was much worse.
The curses
Of hard drugs and failure
Of arm injuries and rehab
Are tough on athletes
With nothing else to do.
You can’t fish all day.
You can’t drink beer all day.
But when you’re Rod Beck,
And the dream is gone,
What do you do with your time
But look for the next high
And kiss each day goodbye?
The Fans’ Lament
by Millie Bovich
Written in the spring of 1995, in response to an imminent players strike, by a Tigers fan of more than six decades.
If only Abner Doubleday could step back to today,
He’d be mighty disappointed that his game is not in play.
He’d expect to find the traffic and the folks around the park,
‘Cause he knows that there were day games, and as many after dark.
He would want to see the rippling of Old Glory ‘gainst the sky,
And the silhouettes of people on a mission shuffling by.
He would sniff to find the favorite smells, familiar and clear,
Of relish, dogs, and mustard, and a hint of warm stale beer.
Old Abner D. would want to hear the sound of cracking bat,
And see the man in right field smooth the hair beneath his hat.
But there is no sweating pitcher, no dusty slide to third,
There is no home run ball that goes a-flying like a bird.
There is no team that’s visiting, no coaches, batboys, so
No spitting, scratching home team in the dugout down below.
Where is the center fielder, where’s the catcher and his sign?
Where’s the skinny, scrappy manager who won’t step on a line?
Where’s the nimble-legged shortstop, where’s the unexpected shout,
Of the chest-protected umpire who too often yells, “Yer Out!?
Where’s the blooper, where’s the error, where’s the field of grassy green?
Where the two colliding fielders as the ball falls in between?
Old Doubleday would lift his eyes to see the scoreboard dark,
And the empty seats so lonely all around the baseball park.
He would shuffle ‘cross the infield and would prob’bly heave a sigh,
Saying,”Why, oh why, in ’94 did baseball have to die?”
There was magic in the sunshine, there was magic when it rained,
When the Tigers left the diamond, every loyal fan complained.
Can’t the owners and the players just sit down and have a talk?
We want vendors hawking pizza, and four balls to be a walk!
We miss our favorite pastime in those old and hallowed places,
We need the sound and sight of baseball in our ears and in our faces!
Something’s missing on the sports page, something’s missing in the news,
We’re deprived as fans of baseball, we’ve a right to sing the blues!
There’s a blank in our existence, it’s a dirty, rotten shame
Players aren’t compiling numbers for the Baseball Hall of Fame.
There is truth in that old adage, Abner’s spirit roams the crowd,
And he sits among the faithful cheering boist’rously and loud!
Now his spirit needs appeasing, now the fans stand sad and blue
In the ninth with bases loaded, what are we supposed to do?
We WANT to see the game again, we LONG to hear the call,
Of a fiesty, sunburned umpire and those special words, “PLAY BALL!”
Posted 6/22/07
