by Millie Bovich
A young centerfielder named Cratchett
Any fly in his zone, he would catch it.
With a wart on his nose
Almost big as a rose,
With his gloved hand, he just couldn’t scratch it!
Posted 6/9/08
Rocky Road–My Favorite!
By Stuart Shea
Chocolate-dipped in a stale sugar cone,
The Rockies emit a miserable moan.
Last year the Series a reachable goal,
This year, last place and 12 games in the hole.
Their bats are as flabby as Jell-O congealed,
With pitching you’d find on a Little League field.
Where’s Tulo? He’s hurt, batting .152,
And Brad Hawpe’s bat has a case of the flu,
The offense an orange without any juice–
In a ballpark like Coors, there’s just no excuse.
Their 2007 pitchers a challenging foe,
But two thousand eight is a sick horror show.
Ubaldo Jimenez is just 1 and 6,
Jeff Francis ain’t fooling no one with his tricks.
Kip Wells, Micah Bowie, and–ugh–Glendon Rusch
Just prove that this pitching staff hasn’t got much.
What’s in a year? What will the team do?
I’m sure they’ll get better–in a season or two.
Posted 6/7/08
When Color Meant Color
by Sid Yiddish
Listening to the Cubs-Padres game on the radio the other night, I fell asleep in the midst of the fourth.
It happens a lot to me,
But I’m not sure why.
Perhaps it’s the broadcast itself that seems to have a shelf-life of three innings before it goes stale.
Oh man…take me back to the days of the radio broadcast team of Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau And good old TV announcer Mr. “Back-Back-Back Hey-Hey” Jack Brickhouse in the latter half of the sixth
And “Drunk-As-Punk” Harry Caray near the end of the eighth.
That is, when color meant color.
And insults were good
And if a name was incorrectly mispronounced, no apologies were forthright or swift
And mistakes in commercials meant laughter and fun
And broadcasters just did their jobs with intelligence
And baseball games were just good old-fashioned baseball games you tuned into on your AM transistor mid-afternoon or late at night
And there was no such thing as
Political correctness.
Posted 6/6/08
Baked Zito
By Stuart Shea
Zito, Zito,
His arm is meat-o.
He goes down
To weekly defeat-o.
His salary is
Really neat-o.
Unless you’re the Giants who may have to eat-o
His contract if he can’t find some team in the National League, or even anywhere at any level of organized baseball, that he can beat-o.
Posted 6/5/08
Roger Clemens’ Emotional Distress
by James Finn Garner
Brian McNamee slimed my name,
Slandered my game,
Handed me shame.
I never did the things he said.
He hurt my cred.
**sniff**
Wish I were dead.
Can’t sleep at night, I have bad dreams,
Hear crazy screams,
‘Bout clears and creams.
Next time the two of us cross paths,
I’ll rip him in half
And gnaw on his lats.
Whatever’s left, I’ll chop in bits
And mail t’ his kids,
Mis’rable shits.
I’m warning you, judge, don’t forget:
I was a meek pet
Ere he and I met.
Posted June 3, 2008