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From an Old Goat’s Notebook

by Sid Yiddish

“Baaah-ter up,” it bawls.
The old goat rises from its pen.
It’s got work to do before the clock strikes half past 10.

Time to prepare itself, for the annual sacrificial legend.
Just before the onslaught of the newly christened season of ballplayers checking themselves out and each other and the fans and the sports media doing the constant scrutinizing and studying to see if they match up just right.

“For my job, I admit it’s harder, and I get told often that I should quit while I’m ahead, but no, not quite yet.
Those Cubs will never win
As long as I’m alive!

“So here’s a toast to the Cubs,
To Chicago’s finest boys in blue,
(Not the cops, mind you).
May you go through another 162 games loveless and hopeless, till you slip away like so many fantasies of years gone by.
Ah yes!
Don’t cry, sweet Chicago, don’t cry!”

For more on Sid Yiddish’s poetry, music and performances, check out his My Space page.

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Posted 5/21/09

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Triumph of the Willis

by James Finn Garner

It brightens baseball’s heart, Dontrelle,
To have you back and pitching well.

Your fastball cutting like a knife,
Endangering the catcher’s life,

Your off-speed floating up and down,
Your hat too big like Charlie Brown’s.

Your rookie year is long behind–
Was that the thing that messed your mind?

We all get old, last time I checked.
That doesn’t mean your life is wrecked.

You’ve got the stuff, now find the guile,
And you’ll be here a good long while.

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Posted 5/20/2009

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On Not Being Able to Say Aloud That WALKS KILL YOU

by Todd Herges

A dozen young boys,
caps colored alike,
dream diamond greatness
and shiny steel spikes.

But theirs are mere rubber,
no hair under arms.
They play just for love
and to earn coach’s charm.

Pitching is paramount.
Throwing strikes is the key.
Walks always kill,
issue two and you’ll see.

Don’t aim or you’ll miss,
hear the fat lady’s song.
The leash will be short,
the ump’s sweat stains grow long.

But these hairless boys
with soft cleats, fragile confidence,
hear the boos amid boosts,
and need upbeat assurance.

So I pick a distraction,
my disgust notwithstanding,
and I say:  “Nothin’ hurt,
mind your foot where it’s landing.”

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Posted 5/19/2009

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Naked Citi

by Jeffrey Felshman

The first fan on Citi Field
ran first to second base,
was taken down in center field,
and hustled out of the place.

With a stuffed and fuzzy monkey
placed over his manly jewels,
preventing unwanted scrutiny,
he was nearly but  not totally nude.

This was five years in planning, he’d said,
and in the top of the fifth, he’d stripped.
To seize his moment in history, he’d meant,
and from his front row seat, he’d leapt.

But history ain’t what it used to be,
and streaking into this category fits.
Historically speaking, streakers
strip down to the last of their bits.

This one couldn’t bear to be bare,
he couldn’t go all the way.
His plan wasn’t all the way there,
his triumph a partial display.

Now, history isn’t written by the winners,
it’s digitally uploaded by upstarts,
chronicling a continual parade
of missing and lesser parts.

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Posted 5/18/09