by Tito and the Gun Show
Mother, May I Slug the Umpire?
by Anonymous, 1886
Mother, may I slug the umpire,
May I slug him right away?
So he cannot be here, mother,
When the Clubs begin to play?
Let me clasp his throat, dear mother,
In a dear, delightful grip
With one hand, and with the other
Bat him several in the lip.
Let me climb his frame, dear mother,
While the happy people shout;
I’ll not kill him, dearest mother,
I will only knock him out.
Let me mop the ground up, Mother,
With his person, dearest do;
If the ground can stand it, mother,
I don’t see why you can’t, too.
Mother, may I slug the umpire,
Slug him right between the eyes?
If you let me do it, mother,
You shall have the champion prize.
Quoted in Crazy ’08 by Cait Murphy.
Posted 7/28/08
Going Out A Winner
by Sid Yiddish
They send me to the showers early
Because I’m not good enough.
Sit me down on the bench and give me a good scolding.
I feel as if my future is folding, but I don’t mind, because I feel as I’ve worked harder at playing the game than anyone who’s ever played in my position.
Still, they tell me it’s not enough.
I still miss fly-balls and occasional grounders, too.
They tell me my throwing arm isn’t what it used to be, when firing from centerfield to tag the runner out at home and it’s not that I’m tired or old or have a reoccurring injury.
It’s just that I’m tired of the abuse that’s heaped on top of me, game after game after game by managers and coaches who read the playbooks all wrong and the owners that only want runs and hits and for the fans to keep on packing the place.
Perhaps this is the last inning for me.
Perhaps it’s time to retire, but it won’t matter.
I’ll still go out a winner.
Posted 7/24/08
Baseball Lightning
by James Finn Garner
It won’t be for his arm or savvy
Or the hits he gave up left and right.
What we’ll remember ’bout Geremi Gonzales
Is the way he would light up the night.
Posted in memory 7/21/08
The Wave Land, Part II
by Thomas Dyja
While the Chicago Cubs are enjoying a terrific year in 2008, for generations they have embodied dashed hopes and weary resignation. To honor those Cub fans of the last century who perished without seeing their team in the World Series, we present this elegy set in the 1980s from award-winning novelist Thomas Dyja.
II. A Game (More or Less)
The bench we sat on, like a worn out bar,
Peeled in the bleachers, where the scoreboard,
Held up by standards wrought of Gary steel, and
From which a pale scorekeeper peeped out
(Another hid his paunch behind the clock)
Posted the score of seven games—Candlestick
Reflecting the time upon the coast—as
The zeroes next to “Cubs” rose to meet defeat
From Cardinal runs poured in rich profusion.
…yet there Jack Brickhouse
Filled all the TV’s with inviolable voice
And still he cried, and still the outfielders pursued,
“Hey Hey” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were set in their green seats; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, jeering the team below.
Footsteps shuffled on the basepaths.
Over DeJesus, far to his left, Mitterwald’s throws
Spread out in fiery points
Rolled into centerfield, then would be savagely booed.
“The Baron is bad today. Yes, bad. Stay with the pitch!
“Hit to left. Why can’t Murcer hit to left? Hit.
“What’s Wallis waiting for? Why’s he taking? Why?
“I’ll never know why they always take. Swing!
Joe thinks we need a late rally
But I just want to go home.
“What is the score?”
The Cubs are down by four.
“What is the score now? What is the wind doing?”
Nothing again nothing.
“Can’t
“They hit anything? Can’t they field anything? Do you remember
“ ’69?”
I remember
Cardenal’s eyelids stuck to his eyes.
“Can you play, or not? Is it something Lockman said?”
But
O O O O Clines overslid the bag—
Tried for too many
A win for Denny
“What shall we do now? What shall we do?”
“We shall go out for a beef, and have a beer
“With our heads down low. What shall we do to-morrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
The game starts at one-thirty.
And if it rains, a pass at the door.
And we shall see a game, more or less,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for the Cubs to maybe score.
Posted 7/16/08