Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
In baseball it’s pitching that matters,
But aim for the plate, not the batters.
The game should be weaning
From brush-back and beaning,
Or make all its players hard-hatters.
This week’s topic at Hilary’s terrific site, LimerWrecks: Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!
Fully extended,
pointed at dead center,
the bat
threatens
obliteration,
liquidation,
annihilation.
Dead wood.
Pure jive.
But pulled back,
balanced near the shoulder,
gyrating at its fulcrum,
ready to swoosh
across the plate
and smash
a scorcher
into the power alley,
the bat
comes
alive.
Barbara Gregorich is the author of She’s on First and Jack and Larry: Jack Graney and Larry, the Cleveland Baseball Dog, and also conducts a terrific presentation on When Women Played Baseball. See her website for more details.
George Washington was President and honored in his day,
He was the father of the land and all things came his way;
He had a basketful of fun, a wagon load of fame—
But he never was a rooter at a base ball game.
Napoleon conquered half the world and had a crown of gold,
And in his time his cup was just as full as it could hold.
It looks from here as though he should have had his share of fun-
But her never strained his vocals when the home team won.
And also Julius Cesar, who had his share of sport,
He won his share of battles, and always held the fort.
He killed lost of people, regardless of the cost—
But he never booed the umpire when the home team lost.
And also Alexander, he turned most every trick,
And then shed tears because there were no more worlds to lick,
He climbed ‘way up the ladder, as high as people get—
But he never pawned his scepter to pay a baseball bet.
Published in the Chicago Record, 1896.
For “The Greatest,” Mohammad Ali nee Cassius Clay (1/17/1942-6/3/2016); “The King,” Elvis Presley (1/8/1935-8/16/1977); and “The Bear,” Sonny Liston (5/8/1932-12/30/1970)
Met Ali in LV, ’63.
Elvis stayed, filmed same hotel as me.
Went to see Liston play,
Met instead Cassius Clay,
My Greatest “Viva Las Memory.”
—————
I’m from St. Louis. In July 1963, my father scored a three day comp for the Sahara Hotel in Vegas, a week before the Liston-Patterson rematch. He had ties with the local boxing community and had met Liston through “his People,” from whom he scored the comps.
The comp also included tickets to the show. We attended the dinner show. Allen and Rossi (“Hello, There…”) opened for Paul Anka. Waiting in the lobby before hand , my mother commented on “the big greaser” standing in front of us loud enough that he couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear. When he turned around, I met a vary gracious Paul Anka.
You can look it up: These were the three days Elvis filmed Viva Las Vegas at the Sahara. I didn’t meet Elvis, or Ann-Margret, but when we went over to visit the Liston camp at the Dunes(?), I met someone even more iconic. Not Liston, who wasn’t there, but:
Walking through the lobby as we were leaving, my father became excited, purchased a post card and said, “Go get that large black man’s autograph.” I had no idea who he was, even after I got it. Three days later, after he invaded Liston’s training camp, everyone knew who Cassius Clay was.
Yes, though Liston may have been “The (Current) Champ” and Elvis may be “The (Once and Future) King”, I met “The Greatest.”
Eight months later, the last week of February 1964, Cassius Clay shocked the world. A few days later on Thursday, he came out as Mohammad Ali. On Saturday, the 29th, I was Bar Mitzvahed and came out as Elijah. I’ve always had an affinity with him
What happened to the autograph, you ask? Don’t ask. My father cried about it every day until he died three years later. He is probably still crying about it. In hindsight, it is fortunate we missed the Generation Gap confrontation that would have inevitably happen, especially when “debating” our opposing opinions on Ali’s CO stand.
Marlon Byrd’s wings clipped
Now he’s grounded for a year
MLB warned him