Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Junior Guerra
At age 31, a unique rookie
His baseball odyssey a winding road
Stops at Braves and Mets minor league affiliates
Independent ball
The Mexican league
And Italian pro baseball
This year he arrived in Milwaukee
His pitching success
A bright spot in a rebuilding year
However long his success lasts
It’s worthwhile
Celebrating his perseverance
Could it get any worse,
This sow’s ear out of a silk purse?
0-9 with men on base?
Talk about a team disgrace.
The Yankee mantra seems to be
Feel free to squander opportunity.
So many long years ago
Ichiro
Began spraying hits
And if it seems like it’s
Going to go on forever
(I mean, it never
Looks like he ages),
Remember the pages
Of record holders
Left to molder
When a young stud
Both lucky and good
Works to set a new mark
At the ball park.
In time a new hero
Will surpass Ichiro,
And the passage of time
Cruel and sublime
Will lose some of its sting
As we salute a new king.
For the McCovey Cove Splash Hit at Pac Bell Park
Two years since last adjusting “Splash Sign”,
Brandon Belt smashed Splash Hit 69.
Since Belt hit 68,
Reckon it’s Brandon’s fate
To splash next one when stars realign.
Visitors have splashed 17 more.
Three foes hit three each, no one’s hit four.
Over half Jints’ number
Off Barry Bond’s lumber–
Quite impressive when smashed splash hits soar.
They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
Knothole Gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.
They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleacher seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.
And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.
They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.
Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.
There was sweet swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?
We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.
Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.
Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.
A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame! For shame!
It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest in Peace, Ebbets Field.
Rest in Peace, Brooklyn Dodgers.