Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
So far so far for now
New York City’s baseball helix
By bat The Yankees won
Necessarily this series 2-to-1
Or did The Mets collapse
A team in need of rebirth
Refocus to rebuild girth
But questions do remain
The Mets? Direction cohesion
An on-rush demonstration
Needed field-and-plate
This season a rebuildment
For all the long ball signature
The Yankees win however
The stats of good pitching
Meaningful future-wise
.
My first Yankee game dad is taking us
I’m full of quiverings and pictures
About Mantle, Berra, Ford and
Suddenly we turn a corner in the Bronx
The giant stadium is looming over us
Vendors hawking banners, hats and badges
I’m drooling over all the souvenirs.
Dad tugs me through a turnstile
Then we join the flow streaming through our gate
One of many in the endless curving wall of Yankee Stadium
A hundred voices rumble echoing inside a tunnel,
Up a ramp and then another ramp
My skinny legs aching with impatience
Up another flight of steps
At last out into the open space
The playing field, the neatest grass and careful dirt and endless seats,
More people than I ever saw.
I gape at them, float above myself
A roar jolts me to attention
The Yankees poring from the dugout
A stream of heroes,
Spreading confident to their appointed places
Hats on hearts they face the flag
The anthem squawks
The game begins at last
I stand and sit and stand again
The plays move slow,
I savor them like ice cream.
Another wish fulfilled a boiled hotdog
Strangers hands pass it on to me
Draped in yellow mustard
I sniff it close, steaming still
My first bite tangy on my lips and tongue.
Washed down with coke and ice cubes for my chewing
Dessert: fresh peanuts
Shells collecting, covering my feet
My breath gets raw and stinky
So dad tells me
I don’t care
What I remember
Mantle hits a homer that never seems to end
The roar is deafening and wonderful,
Carries me into the sky
I hope the game will never end
It does
I sleep the whole way home.
Carny barker, rodeo clown,
Digging ditches in the ground,
Pizza schlepping in Astoria,
Lube guy at some sex emporia,
Blue-haired lady’s gigolo
(Let’s hope you never stoop that low),
Roadkill man on th’ Interstate,
Scrounging cans or selling bait–
Whatever crummy job you get,
Be thankful you’re not Mr. Met.
.
I met a traveler from a twinkie land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in U.S. Cellular Field. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Kenny Williams, GM of GMs:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
This was originally published on the SBNation blog, South Side Sox.
It’s a funny game, Mazzaro said
As the balls went flying by
They go right by the fielders
I’m sure I don’t know why.
It’s a funny game, Mazzaro said
The ball takes funny hops
The hitters all are in the zone
The inning never stops.
It’s a funny game, Mazzaro said
The manager agreed
Let’s keep him in the game some more
I’m sure he will succeed.
.