Eddie Collins

by Michael Ceraolo

I was one of the Clean Sox,
but that doesn’t mean I was perfect:
at the start of my career
I played professionally under an assumed name
in order to try to keep my college eligibility,
and I was a contributor to the pot gotten up
to reward Detroit for beating Boston in ’17,
something that the Dirty Sox later
tried to make out as part of a fix
Such rewarding was common at the time,
though I can see now how it could be misconstrued
I should have taken the job as Yankees manager
when it was offered to me;
I thought I was going to succeed Mr. Mack
when he retired, and that retirement would be in a few years
When that few years passed without his retiring,
I took the job with Mr. Yawkey,
and what I did and didn’t do in that job
has justifiably dimmed my reputation,
something that I now see in retrospect

The Old Man and the Suds

by Stuart Shea

Here’s something that freaks me
More than just slightly—
Bob Uecker is ninety!

At an age when few people
Are vivid or lively,
Bob Uecker is ninety!

“I must be in the front rooooow…”

 

A Pressing Issue

by James Finn Garner

Mets Can’t Wear Alternative Jerseys Because the Pants Haven’t Arrived

As the nation’l pastime seeks expanse
To pull in those who might just glance
And, intrigued, give the game a chance,
Manfred should provide some pants.

Fans in Britain, Spain and France,
With soccer frustrated perchance,
Might get all “Tinker! Evers! Chance!”
But won’t if players have no pants.

College hoops? Yeah, “The Big Dance!”
Skaters ’round Stanley’s cup prance.
Football thrills all uncles and aunts.
Baseball? They ain’t got no pants.

On-field play can be enhanced
And fortunes made through slick finance
But we might have a free “snake dance”
Unless MLB invests in pants.

The Fly Ball

by John Grey

Here I am
in center field,
blue sky,
ball falling,
crowd on edge,
glove flapping
like an albatross’s wing,
now what’s my name again,
where do I live,
who are my parents,
am I five
or twelve or fifteen,
can I tie my own shoelaces,
do I leave the toilet seat
up or down,
am I right-handed, left-handed,
what’s the color of my hair,
am I good at math,
do I know my geography,
what’s that song
that I can’t stop humming,
do I really like that blonde girl
from the next street over,
where are my knees,
what’s this big orange thing
protruding from my hand,
and what about that white projectile
that’s heading in my direction,
do I grab it,
do I let it drop,
why are the other guys
yelling at me,
why am I where I am
on this scruffy patch of green,
a fence behind me,
more green and then
a diamond shape ahead of me,
what is my purpose in life,
is it the very same as my purpose now,
this very minute,
am I a hero or a fool,
do I think too much
about all that goes
without thinking?