Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Adam Dunn can’t hit his weight.
In the AL, the DH job
Don’t get done at .168.
A hit man working for the mob
Posting such an average
would end up in a trunk, well plugged.
By even elfin Lillibridge
Is this day-old pot roast outslugged.
With warmer weather, heaven willing,
The Sox’ll wield more potent lumber.
Adam, a tip from TV’s Tom Skilling:
In Chicago, it’s already summer.
Though Alex Rios is glad to see
A “slugger” choking worse than he.
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.
Dick Allen, who played for 15 years with the Phillies (Rookie of the Year, 1964) and White Sox (MVP, 1972), was also a fine soul singer. This song was released in 1968 on the Groovey Grooves label. His group once performed at halftime during a 76ers game. From Wikipedia, here’s a review of the performance from the Philadelphia Inquirer:
“Here came Rich Allen. Flowered shirt. Tie six-inches (152 mm) wide. Hiphugger bell-bottomed pants. A microphone in his hands. Rich Allen the most booed man in Philadelphia from April to October, when Eagles coach Joe Kuharich takes over, walked out in front of 9,557 people at the Spectrum last night to sing with his group, The Ebonistics, and a most predictable thing happened. He was booed. Two songs later though, a most unpredictable thing happened. They cheered Rich Allen. They cheered him as warmly as they have ever cheered him for a game winning home run.”
We’re taught the game is played a certain way;
That men should bunt and strike out reverently
There really isn’t much else left to say.
In Little Rock, they welcomed him with spray
A sullen, stinging, whitewashed reverie.
We’re taught the game is played a certain way.
When one man swung his bat and struck him, they
Bestowed on him the culpability.
There really isn’t much else left to say.
He scratched October Second in the clay
Where local fans had once flung batteries
We’re taught the game, to play a certain way
And despite his prodigious, powerful display
Battling loneliness, rage, misery
There really isn’t much else left to say.
And so Dick Allen scowled as he played.
And so old men wrote their history.
We’re taught the game is played a certain way.
There really isn’t much else left to say.
Patrick Dubuque is the head honcho at the blog The Playful Utopia, which you all should start reading.
Twenty-first birthday
and daughter’s a White Sox fan.
Booze might help that pain.