600 dingers for Big Jim Thome!
Hit without juicing but only
Muscle and heart
And a jaw
That could flatten John McGraw.
Our own version of the Mighty Casey
Whom  dads can point to
And tell their kids in awe,
“That, my darlings, THAT is a slugger!”

The Cleveland Indians, fighting for life,
Rallied with bloopers and darts.
But Austin Jackson fired a BB
Into the Indians’ hearts.

They trailed by seven, but came back strong,
Those Tribesmen played their parts!
But Austin Jackson fired a BB
Into the Indians’ hearts.

The tying run is on third with one out–
On a fly ball, the runner starts!
But Austin Jackson fired a BB
Into the Indians’ hearts.

The Indians’ move was U-bold-o
Getting Jimenez away from the Rockies.
Their hot idea might end up cold, though,
If his outings continue so schlocky.

A wildcat did prowl
The wind began to howl
and Oddibe McDowell
belongs in a Bob Dylan song.
.

Jim Siergey is the author and illustrator of the Cubs alternate history If They Did It. You can see more of his illustration work at his website here.

We cannot know his legendary head,
We cannot know his riddle-speak, his swing,
His heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

Oblivious (or publicly misread),
He went forth like a jester, like a king.
We cannot know his legendary head.

Ramirez never anguished, never bled.
Perfection seemed a right and simple thing.
His heart? It greets no consequence, no dread.

A paradox: collective joy and dread
Awash in pride and drunk on estrogen–
We cannot know his legendary head.

A selfish man and insecure, they said.
But maybe public shame can even sting
A heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

And maybe all the jokes had turned to lead,
The time had come to leave the center ring.
We’ll never know his legendary head,
His heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

Eric writes the terrific blog Pitchers & Poets. One of his posts from P&P appears in the 2010 edition of Best American Sports Writing.

CHICAGO WHITE SOX
Will Morel mushroom
into a good third baseman
Or just become waste?

CLEVELAND INDIANS
Um…Jack Hannanan?
In the lineup? At third base?
It’s not April 1.

DETROIT TIGERS
The Tigers, a team
of 25 question marks.
A growl? A meow?

KANSAS CITY ROYALS
Ending up with Jeff
Francoeur…that’s a real bad day
At the rummage sale.

MINNESOTA TWINS
If he keeps winning,
Carl Pavano can look like
A porn star all year.

Counting: 15 out of 16 years past
to Yankee playoff possibility:

Pirates?  Padres?  The Indians, e.g.?
(the list of small- & medium-market
teams is as long as owners’ ledgers)
a dis-service to their fans:

So don’t argue:

That your team owners may be committed
to money to profit not to bases counted
or games won: to profit sharing:
& so much for quality & parity

Some teams are designed to contend
others merely to make money

Have the Twins sold their soul to the devil?
Have they penned a new contract in blood?
Has their lust for a title bereft them
Of a compass to tell bad from good?

What else can explain their performance?
Half the team’s on the disabled list,
while rooks amble up from the minors
Like Joe Jackson in a cornfield mist.

Thome’s swing has shrugged off a decade,
And Pavano now hurls like an ace.
Something’s hinky, you know, with these Twinkies.
Have the precepts of God been replaced?

Yet one sable evening in Cleveland
Came the devil’s own agent, Fausto.
For their pride he pulled ‘em back to the pit.
Ol’ Nick will be paid what he’s owed.

Posted 9/14/10

“It was a warm day in August when history was made,
And the fans in the boxes were looking for shade.
The bases were loaded, it was the last inning.
From the sound of the crowd, you knew we weren’t winning.

When out of the dugout came No. 3,
The last hope for the Twins it was sure to be.
Now legend tells of Casey at the bat,
But today it was the Killer who tipped his hat.

Cursing and swearing came from the stands,
When Harmon was waved back by Rigney’s hand.
An astonishing look came over the Brew’s face,
When Rigney said, ‘Manuel is taking your place.’

A disbelieving look as he turned around,
Placed his bat in the rack without a sound.
Then from the bench came No. 9,
Who’d been warming the pine for a long, long time.

As he stepped from the dugout came a yell from the stands,
‘You can’t hit Manuel, the Killer’s our man.’
Never before in history had they pinch hit for the Brew,
Especially with some hillbilly hitting .182.

This was a mockery, a dirty rotten shame,
To pinch hit for a man who’s a sure Hall of Fame.
But Charlie heard not a word as he strode to the plate.
He only noticed the crowd’s eyes; they were filled with hate.

‘God, help me this one time,’ kept going through his mind.
‘If I ever get a hit, let it be this time.’
Jim Palmer looked in and thought, ‘This should be a cinch,
I’ll throw three by this rider of the bench.’

Down came the ball with a little white glare,
As Manuel stood watching for he knew it was there.
‘Strike one,’ came the call from the man in blue,
And four pitches later it was 3 and 2.

Now everything rode on the very last pitch.
Would Charlie stay a poor boy or would he suddenly be rich?
The crack of the bat and a long drive to right,
The back of Blair’s uniform is the only thing in sight.

The roar from the stands gave a deafening scream…
Then Charlie fell out of bed, it was only a dream.”

From the Cleveland Indians website 2000.  Copyright c by Charlie Manuel.  Discovered on the Baseball Almanac website.

Posted 7/22/2010

Uproar in the press!
Lupica wants Selig to
Bend time…space…honor.

Override ump’s call?
This summer’s game ain’t perfect.
Not one for the books.

Posted 6/6/10