Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
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.
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
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.
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?
by Stu Shea
“Today I make a promise from my soul
That I will try my best in my new role.
I will not swing at sliders aimed at my back foot,
Nor run the bases like I’m wearing gumboots.
Or make a six-hop throw toward the plate
That never gets the runner ’cause it’s late.
I hope that I can keep this oath.”
“You and me both.”
Posted 6/21/07