By Millie Bovich
Dear boys of summer, cheeks of tan,
We’re listed now “they also ran”.
Who would’ve, could’ve thought last spring
The pennant home they would not bring?
But pitch relief and you will find
Hitters of another kind.
Our big pay bats could not produce
And as result, too bad, we “loose”.
But thanks for summer’s fun and wins.
The fourteen season soon begins!
For baseball we’ve become as slaves
And hope the next opponents shave!
Only a cad would say exactly how many years Millie has been a Tigers fan, but we’re betting it’s longer than any of you.
by Stephen Jones
At eighteen he committed himself
to baseball . . . for fifty years.
Detroit should be grateful.
He didn’t fail stadium fans –
their team’s porous bats did
like unidentified blips
on baseball’s radar screen.
Mr. Leyland deserved better.
by James Finn Garner
Is beloved from Grosse Ile to Ignace to Zeeland.
All across the mitten
Tiger fans are still smitten.
by Hilary Barta
In Boston they shave with a cleaver
Being tossed on a wave of beard fever
But poor Motown is shattered
By big blows they were battered
All is lost with no saving reliever.
With Halloween approaching, you need to check out all the limericks at Hilary’s blog, LimerWrecks.
by Michael X. Ferraro
Bumper to bumper on the way home,
October baseball on the AM waves.
The guys in the booth are nattering
and then one allows, “Hee-ere’s the pitch.”
In the pregnant pause, a log is split
on my radio, a violent snap
of sound, like the dude from Green Day
just pulverized his snare. Or maybe
one of those “Where The Wild Things” saw red
and razed a roof. Either way, that pure
noise story-tells better than Scully.
Detroit’s sigh is broadcast nation-wide.
We are no longer wedged in traffic,
because bat met ball met microphone
and Marconi trots with Napoli.