by Stuart Shea
The Sox Machine has broken down.
J-Roll is rolling out of town,
The latest on Latos isn’t good—
He’s available in trade for a cord of wood.
Nobody thinks it’s the manager’s fault
That the bullpen’s a victim of nightly assault
While the power hitters ain’t hittin’ or powerin’—
And it’s far too late to re-sign Moose Skowron.
by Jim Siergey
The White Sox signed lefty bat Morneau
But hold off before saying “Bongiorno”
You’ll just have to wait
For Justin’s plate date
Because his damn elbow is torn so.
By James Finn Garner
On this beautiful summer day in June
The Royals rise and the White Sox swoon
The Astros still dream of their trip to the moon
The Red Sox hope they aren’t peaking too soon
While the Yanks obsess over things picayune
The Rangers and Jays field their share of goons
Tampa ponders a move to Saskatoon. . .
And Epstein’s still the smartest guy in the room.
by James Finn Garner
A repost for the 10th anniversary…
This is the saga of Battlin’ Mike Barrett,
A tiger of a man with fists of ore.
He’d raise his dukes and take on all comers,
Regardless the color of jersey they wore.
His mighty hands landed many a blow.
He never backed down from a brawl.
But such hardened paws don’t do you much good
When your job’s to be fielding the ball.
Originally published 6/14/07.
by the Village Elliott
For Eddie Lopat, who pitched from 1944-55 with the White Sox, Yankees and Orioles.
Eddie Lopat threw junk that looked fat.
Hitters couldn’t wait to take their at bat,
But the pitch Eddie threw
Hitters always swung through,
‘Cause their bat ain’t where the ball was at.