By Millie Bovich
It’s the middle of November and I hardly can remember
The exciting plays of baseball days of yore,
When the players had a mission and they played with such precision
Winning games before the weather shut the door.
Didn’t blacken up their cheek bones, in the stands there were no speak phones
And five dollars purchased all that you could eat.
Yes, the games were all in daytime when the umpire hollered play time
And the batter tapped the red clay off his cleat.
In the outfield hot as blazes, some hitters went thru phases
‘Cause it seemed some balls would never meet their bats.
Of those hot days I’m recalling in the outfield sweat was falling
And cold cabbage leaves were fitted ‘neath their hats.
No cameras were rolling while announcers were extolling
Shoestring catches that were made out in the field.
Players’ monthly checks were smaller, seems the players too were taller
And by standards of today they weren’t well heeled.
They still tried to please their bosses, as they counted wins and losses
And the managers inflicted sure their will.
When the season’s games were over, only two teams in the clover
And the owners gladly divvied up the till.
Twenty-eighteen’s in the books now, we have disappointed looks now.
Celebration’s in the place with eastern scenes.
You don’t have to use your noodle, they won kit and the kaboodle
In the city where the people eat their beans.
Soon the snowflakes will be piling, so we put away our smiling
‘Til we feel warm breezes blowing in our hair,
Then the turnstiles will be turning and for baseball we’ll be yearning.
You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be there!