by the Village Elliott
Since Game Seven, I’ve laid in the sack
“Let my dauber down,” would not spring back
Then spring training arrived
And my dauber revived
With first ball-hitting-bat’s-sweet-spot’s “crack.”
Rogers Hornsby, Off-Season Poet
by Raphael Badagliacca
What do I do in Winter
When there’s no baseball
People want to know
Just one thing
I stare out the window
And wait for Spring.
Sammy Sosa, the Founder of Chicago
by James Finn Garner
Leave aside the famed DuSable
Who thought he wore this feather in his cap.
We’ll forgive you this historical bobble,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Forget Bill Thompson and Hinky Dink Kenna
Who lay the town in corruption’s lap.
They came and went, but at the center,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Dion O’Banion and Al Capone
Made sure the suds were e’er on tap.
Those slobs can’t call this town their own–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Sure, Sandburg, Bellow, Studs could write,
Curtis Mayfield was a soulful chap,
Muddy Waters was a man, all right,
But Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
I’ll admit MJ could play some hoops.
Hack, Ernie, Big Hurt and Pudge could slap
A few hits around, but no big whoops–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Washington Swept Here
by Jim Siergey
Herb Washington
Designated to run
Not to shake hands
Or kiss baby’s faces
But solely to suit up
And steal some bases
We salute Herb on this other Washington’s birthday: 33 runs scored and 31 stolen bases in 105 games with nary a time at bat!
Already?
by Stephen Jones
Doesn’t matter which team you like —
Pitchers and catchers start this week.
“This year it’ll be different,” you avow . . .
Based on what you don’t know right now.
No matter — speculation and hope abound,
And never touch winter’s frozen ground,
And while right now it might be cold and gray,
Dreams float like clouds on a summer day.