Cynical sportswriters called me Sly
because I played fast and loose with the rules
We nearly lost Bob Feller because of it,
but his and Bill’s desire for him to remain with Cleveland
because of our rapport as fellow Iowans,
plus the Commissioner’s decision
to save the owners from themselves
by forestalling a bidding war,
carried the day for us
We weren’t as fortunate with Tommy Henrich,
but we got lucky again with Lou Boudreau
Two out of three is a good batting average in rule-breaking,
so I guess maybe the sportswriters were right
my father taught religious school every saturday and sunday morning. i was required to attend every saturday. afterwards, we would go over to my great-uncle’s package liquor store, and he would deliver booze for them.
my brother would lay down on crates reading in the back, while i played pinochle with my great-uncle and two of his hanger-on buddies, my clip-on tie hanging on to my disheveled shirt by a tie tack. while they smoked their unfiltered cigarettes, i chose pretzel rods instead, and life savers rather than real coins.
the ball game played on the radio. the three geezers filled my head with baseball tales and local player lore.
after a couple years i turned ten, and they presented me with an all-star baseball mag as a gift. every picture had a hand-signed autograph. i cherished this prized treasure.
years later it came time to move out of the folks’ house. i rediscovered this prize, only to realize that every third signature possessed the same handwriting.
i laughed and looked up at the sky. ‘you guys got me!’
A proud son of Cleveland, Stan Klein is a fine artist, a gallery manager and an usher for both the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
It took nerve to apply for the manager’s job
when I was only twenty-four,
but I felt I was qualified:
I had been the captain of every team I played on,
and I had coached college ball in the offseason
I was proud of devising the shift
we sprung on Ted Williams
I understand teams these days use it on most players,
and that there is talk of banning such radical shifting
in order to increase offense
I am against taking that option away from managers;
the solution now is the same as it was for Ted:
hit the ball the other way
But I guess most major leaguers
are as stubborn as Ted was
You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
