Zay, Deceased

By John Shea

.Reflections on viewing an otherwise unidentified 1880s player listing in the old MacMillan baseball encyclopedia

.

Unremembered:
Which hand you threw with.
When was your birthday.
How tall you stood.

The simple fact of your demise
A mere assumption, an
Actuarial extrapolation.
Perhaps you’re hanging on still somewhere,
Raging, shaking your fist at God.
Youneverknow.

What we can be sure of:
One fine afternoon,
Before some long-forgotten scribe,
You stood on a hill
And kissed infinity.

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Posted 8/21/2009

Yorman’s Back!

By Stuart Shea

They couldn’t keep him down!
He’s back for another round.
The guy with the funny name
Has another chance at fame.

Make sure to fill out a brand new dance card-o!
Last night saw the return of Yorman Bazardo!

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Game Update!  by James Finn Garner

In his debut with the Astros — “Howdy there, Pard-o!” —
Yorman left the Fish battered and scarred-o
(Though with 10 hits, they might have starred-o).
Our young stud of his dignity keeps a shard-o.
When the ‘Stros play the Phils next, wherever the yard-o,
Yorman will hoist those Phools on their own petard-o!

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Posted 8/20/2009

Rivalry

by January O’Neil

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I came to the party late,
long after Babe was sold to the Yanks
past the magic of Ted Williams and Yaz
and Buckner’s ball through the legs.
Didn’t understand The Curse
but the years without a championship
added up like runners on base
and no one to bring them home.
Generations of Red Sox fans
passed away without a World Series win.
The velocity of our hatred
was unmatched, and we liked it that way.
In 2003, we were Dirt Dogs.
A tribe. A nation. Even the anticipation
of spring training became a torture so real
it bordered on beautiful,
how beauty is supposed to reach us,
with a temporary luster,
with nothing to show for it
but our longing.
If you’re a member of this Nation
you’re full of hunger and angst,
there’s nothing you can do
to ease the silence. Win
or go home is the only option.
We watch no matter what,
learning to live with loss,
that soft hurt that never goes away.

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Posted 8/19/2009

Pirate S#&@

by Stu Shea

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Freddie and Jack play for Pittsburgh,
Losers for many a year,
It’s not hard to see
That this century
Local fans want a winner to cheer.

The Pirate ship’s listing and lurching,
Taking on water and flies.
Nobody’s good
And it’s understood
That “untouchable” doesn’t apply.

Freddie and Jack want new contracts.
Fred can’t play second at all.
Jack cannot hit,
And the team’s for s#&@,
These guys ain’t en route to The Hall.

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Posted 8/18/2009

Tunnel of Love

(Or, From Pitcher’s Hand to Catcher’s Glove)

.

by Todd Herges

With apologies and thanks to Bruce Springsteen and Mark Knopfler

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In a screaming ring of faces
The fat man sits on a little stool
As my eyes take a walk all over you,
As his fingers take a walk in front of the cup.

Then the lights go out and it’s just the three of us:
Pitcher, catcher, batter.
Let it rock and let it roll
Down in through this tunnel of love.

Hey mister blue give me oh-two, give me oh and two ‘cause two can play this game.
But it’s only gonna be me playing tonight
With a mind, with a twig.
A little maple twig, soon to be shattered – if it’s dared put on my pitch.

Then the lights go out it’s just the three of us.
I’m laughing at you, you’re laughing at me,
But you’re a victim of my night
As I shoot an arrow through your heart.

You gotta learn to live with what you can’t rise above
The way my two finger rises and rides away
‘Cause it’s been money for muscle, another whiriligig,
And rockaway rockaway

On the tunnel of love. In this tunnel of love.

Down the pipe down the chute down the pike
I shoot the little seed,
The little pill-sized 5-ounce pea,
The tiny pea-sized 9-inch aspirin tablet,

Past you.

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posted 8/17/2009