Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Tons of money for the owners.
Ignorance of player-dopers.
More exploitative contract bids
For dirt-poor Caribbean kids.
A baseball classic for the world
Where U.S. players rarely hurled.
With anti-trust still holding fast,
Small-market teams still finish last.
Now, Milwaukee celebrates this schwanz
With a Selig statue cast in bronze.
Posted 8/30/10
So the news comes that Mark McGwire
On the subject of juice was a liar.
Plus, it’s a good bet
That water is wet
And it hurts to grab something on fire.
“I’m not here to talk ’bout the past,”
Mark blurted to Congress so fast,
Whatever the pride
He had that day died
To give a defense so half-assed.
To get a job working for Tony,
Mark had to confess his baloney.
He was juiced to the ears
Those homer-soaked years,
A fame-drunk, preposterous phony.
To get in the Cooperstown Hall,
McGwire will wait for his call
Til Hell freezes over,
The sea swallows Dover,
And Sammy parleys like Bill Engvall.
Posted 8/29/10
If Roger goes to court,
It’ll be an unfamiliar sport,
Where there’s no way to throw inside
Or otherwise use horsehide.
Who will decide?
When Roger’s in the book,
How will all the numbers look?
Seven Cy Youngs should say it all,
But the Feds are gonna have a ball
About Winstrol.
All-star person.
Standup guy.
Ask for effort,
He shall try.
Fine on defense,
Solid mitt.
Can’t hit lefties.
Not one whit.
Sterling fellow.
Never slacks.
Teammate pals,
He’s got their backs.
Plays the outfield,
With aplomb.
Can’t hit lefties.
What a bum.
Wrap yourself in nostalgia’s blankets
it’s cold outside.
But even the blanket’s moth-eaten,
ragged with grief.
For today Tiger Stadium comes down.
*
Oh, the old green wooden seats
banging to start up a rally
Oh, the corrupt ushers
in their crooked ties
barking at kids sneaking down
to the good seats
Oh, the long urinal troughs in the men’s room
the line up of drunks and young boys on tiptoe
Oh, the bullpens along the baselines
watching the wonderfully evil Goose Gossage
warm up, the ball exploding in the catcher’s mitt.
Oh, the waxy plastic beer cups stacking up
beneath the bleacher benches
Oh, my three-year-old daughter in her sundress
smiling in her Tiger hat that last season, last game.
Michigan and Trumbull, Michigan and Trumbull.
Cochrane and Kaline, Cochrane and Kaline.
*
Oh, so you want me to wrap things up do you?
A game permanently shortened by rain.
Just remember stepping through shadows
up the narrow fenced ramp
into the upper deck
and into the explosion of sunshine on green grass.
Sunshine and green grass.
Squint and be a good boy.
Squint, and don’t cry.
Remember your first game ever
before anyone lied to you.
Let me call them out: Harmon Killebrew,
Boog Powell, Dick McAullife, #3,
with the stance of a mad scientist
trying to kill his creation.
Come on back for your cup of coffee
in the bigs, Purnell Goldy.
Come back for your one good season
Champ Summers. Let me say it again,
Champ Summers. Gates Brown.
Earl Wilson, the pitcher who pinch-hit,
Ron LeFlore, the ex-con. Jim Northrup,
grand-slam king. Bases loaded, dude.
Ray Oyler, come on back and crack .200.
Stormin’ Norman Cash come on back
and hit 361 again and show it was no fluke.
A high foul ball. A major league pop-up
and Freehan has the mask off, and Lance
Parrish has the mask off, and Mickey Cochrane
has the mask off.
Oh, big Frank Howard hitting one over the roof.
Oh, Dave Rozema karate-kicking his way
out of baseball just because he was young
and excitable.
Okay, Bird, I know you’ve been waiting,
come on back and tell the ball a few things
you forgot to say.
Bleachers or General Admission
Ladies/Retirees Day. Polish-
American Night.
50,000 kids with free bats bouncing them
off concrete. Bring back the father-son games
Charlie Dressen is my grandfather. Mayo Smith
my great uncle. Billy Martin the dark sheep.
Al Kaline, kind uncle. Gibby the cousin
the parents worried about.
Roll off the tarp, drag the infield.
Herbie do the Shuffle one more time
Bring back Jake Wood and Jerry Lumpe.
Mickey Lolich, come back in from the Donut Shop.
Denny McLain, come back from prison one last time.
*
Did I say I was going to stop? The rain’s letting up some.
The Orioles are in town with the Robinsons.
The Yanks are in town with Mantle and Maris
and did McLain really groove one to Mantle in ’68?
Just an organ in between innings.
No rock and roll scoreboard hi-jinks razzamatazz.
Ernie, take the mike.
We’ll all pull up a Stroh’s and stay awhile.
We’ll come down from Paradise to catch a foul ball.
Charlie Maxwell, come on back from Paw Paw.
It’s baseball. Nobody’s died. They’re all still alive.
Rust and cracks in memory’s stadium.
It didn’t have to be this way.
Trammell and Whitaker have one more double play
to turn.
Sock It to ’em Tigers.
Bless you, Boys.
I’m squinting into the sun.
All my life I’ve never seen such green.
Jim Daniels is a professor in the creative writing program at Carnegie Mellon University, and has written more than 25 books of poems and stories.