Former Cream bassist ponders lost love in the wake of the Impossible Dream.
…and Don’t Forget Edwin Jackson…
By Stu Shea
Steven Strasburg is the news,
Everybody’s giving views
About his shutdown, good or bad,
So many writers seem so mad!
If he was all the Nats could boast,
Then Washington would look like toast.
But they’ve a very sweet bullpen,
Plus Gio, Detwiler and Zimmerman.
The Call
by Charles Ghigna
Like many kids of the 1950s, I loved baseball. I played on teams throughout my youth and in 1964 I received an invitation to spring training camp for a tryout with the Pittsburgh Pirates. I’m still waiting to hear from them. In the meantime, I’ve been writing a few poems…
I may have lost a step or two,
(Or four, or six, or eight).
My bat speed may have slowed a bit,
(Much like a rusty gate).
My fastball may have lost some pop,
My slider may be have slid,
But when I dream of baseball,
I become a kid.
A glint of steel in my young stare,
Swagger in my stride,
I saunter to the plate
With confidence and pride.
A fastball down the middle,
I swing with all my might,
Old Rawlings soars past the crowd
And deep into the night.
There I am in summer’s glow
Warmed by hometown cheers,
Rounding third and striding home,
Back to my boyhood years.
Suddenly I’m sixty-six
Asleep in winter’s sun,
Dreaming of what might have been
When I was twenty-one.
Still I wait to take the call,
To hear them say my name,
An old man dreaming of the day
He played a young man’s game.
Charles Ghigna (Father Goose) is a poet, children’s author, speaker, and nationally syndicated feature writer for Tribune Media Services.
Madre de Dios! Ese Alex Rios!
by James Finn Garner
Among Omar Infante’s dislikes
Must be incoming baserunners – Yikes!
To dodge getting maimed
Cost the Bengals the game —
One of inches, and feet wearing spikes.
Justin Case of Rain (White Sox-Tigers Game 4 Postponement)
by Hilary Barta
Before nary a pitch had been thrown
One would swear that the outcome was known
To elude Detroit’s ace
Would be shrewd–no disgrace
And when e’er you can’t win, you postpone.
Though of rain, not a drip had yet dropped,
‘Fore the game even started they stopped
Of a squall not a trace,
But was called “Justn” case,
While the Sox the division still topped.
Hilary Barta publishes limericks on movies, monsters and pop culture every day at LimerWrecks.