Browse all poems and songs in the 'Detroit Tigers' Category


You Don’t Know Jackson

by James Finn Garner

Edwin Jackson
Might have some action
Left in his fastball, batters fear,

‘Cuz Baltimore signed him
His “best” years behind him
His 12th team in 14 years.

Buck, it’s a mirage–
He can’t hit a garage,
Throws as straight as a cluster of starlings.

Looks like Duquette’s
Willing to forget
His results with the Cubs and the Marlins.

And the Tigers.
And the Padres.
And the Braves.
And the White Sox.
And the Dodgers.
And probably the Pilots.

 



Don’t Need the O-K

By James Finn Garner

Francisco, the K-Rod of lore,
Can’t get batters out like before.
Bought by Detroit for a bag of rocks,
He now harangues reporters to squawk
No coach ever asked about his demotion.
Where did he ever get the mad notion
That, at his current level of play,
Ausmus and Dubee needed his okay?

Whether by smoke signal, carrier pigeon or love letter,
There’s only one message for you, pal: Pitch better.

 



The Baseball Brawl

By Millie Bovich

It all started when the pitcher threw a ball too much inside,
And the batter kinda whispered, “This guy’s style I can’t abide.”

When it happened sure a second time in inning Number Three,
Thought the batter, more suspicious, “Did he try to dump on me?”

So the manager protesting gave the ump a nasty sign
And a number of his teammates jumped right up and crossed the line.

Then the bench began to empty and the team all rose as one–
That’s precisely as it happened when the donnybrook spun on.

The other bench rose also, running towards the pitcher’s mound,
And the grays and whites all tangled and a couple hit the ground.

Caps and mitts went flying, with the pitching mound a mess,
And the lefty center fielder came right in without duress,

Then the language got specific when the knuckles hit their mark,
And the melee just intensified that Sunday at the park.

There was shoving, there was pushing, there were words we can’t repeat.
Not a fan in Tiger home field was ensconced upon his seat.

We couldn’t tell was gray or white, but someone threw a punch,
And who knows where it landed in that sweaty, brawling bunch?

Then a fielder smacked a shortstop, and the rook from second base
Joined the brouhaha depositing his fist on catcher’s face,

But the fella at the organ played and never missed a note,
His talented musicality endeav’ring to promote.

The relievers in the bullpen thought they’d never get the call,
But they stopped their practice pitches and proceeded to the brawl.

The bag at first stood empty, he wouldn’t be left out,
Then he decked a tall right fielder, that’s what he was all about.

Sure, the crowd became unruly, they had come to watch a game.
“This ain’t hockey,” from the box seats, “but I like it just the same.”

They whistled and they hollered, it was all that you could hear,
And someone in the bleachers spilled a 32-ounce beer.

“Mayhem, this is mayhem,” said the lady in the hat,
But the brawlers kept on brawling, disregarding all of that.

The people in the grandstands screamed their epithets as well,
And what broke loose that afternoon was bloody, holy hell.

Someone bumped the hawkster selling dogs and frosty drink,
And the mustard pot spilled over and the place began to stink.

The player guarding second ran, his teammates to defend,
And the television spokesman yelled, “Who knows how this will end?”

Now third base too was vacant when the player there joined in,
And you couldn’t hear the ump above the tumult and the din.

So 40,000 fans were there and some were almost numb,
To witness what the papers said was pandemonium.

And years from now some Tiger fans will swear that they were there,
When the baseball brawl erupted with which nothing can compare.

Finally, yes, finally, the umps regained control,
With common sense and pleading and a trifle of cajole.

So it ended with no inj’ries and each player took his post
With no thought of his activities about which he could boast.

The fans regained composure and each settled in the sun,
And the record books recorded that the Detroit Tigers won!

 



Shakespeare and Baseball

by Millie Bovich

Composing a limerick’s quite smarty
With the talent of “William the Bardy”
It would take many days
To read all of his plays–
Nothing like soup of canardy!

But with baseball, it often gets chancy
It can put you in almost a trancy
When you watch every fly
Disappear in the sky
And a pitcher, you know, can get fancy!

Nine players with actions symphonic
And the smoothness you find in a tonic
They can put on a show
When to ballpark you go
And the stats all become histrionic!

Oh, the sounds and the smells in profusion
May they point to a worthy conclusions
Quoting, “Out, out damned spot!”
May the Tigers get hot
With no straining, no pain or contusion.

In a season that’s only beginning
Every team has the goal of much winning
Set aside English Lit
And rejoice in each hit.
Sorry, Shakespeare, can’t miss the first inning!

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “With God on Cards’ Side”

By the Village Elliott

Oh, my game, it is baseball.
My home team’s the best,
The team that I root for,
Once league’s furthest west;
I’s taught and brought up where
Redbird fans reside,
Learn the St. Louis Cardinals
Have God on our side.

Learned the game from my father,
Local fan till last day.
Taught me, “Watch your team play, son,
Play the game the right way.”
Watched, rooted, and studied,
Played with own inner pride,
Like I learned as a Cards’ fan
With God on our side.

Have own Hall of Fame Roster
Bat with Redbirds on chest
Diz and Gibby hurled high heat
“Stan the Man’s” still our best
Slats, Pepper, Brock, Cha Cha
Curt Flood’s on-/off-field pride.
My team’s greats played the game right
With God on their side.

I attended first series,
Damn Yanks, ’64.
Teams split the first six games,
Each must win one game more.
Sat with Dad in the bleachers,
Where Mick’s last tater flied.
Final out celebrated
With God on our side.

Beat Damn Yanks for first title.
Old Pete was the gent,
Soon Lou and Babe payback,
In four games Cards are spent.
Split next two, early ’40s,
Wounded Damn Yankees’ pride,
Then they start counting dead boys
With God on their side.

After Second World War, boys,
BoSox dream Cards upend.
Later “Lonborg’s Champagne”
Drink “Impossible’s” end,
But post-Y2K,
Big Papi’s, Sox pride
Twice repay the Redbirds
With God on their side.

Oh, the record book tells it,
It tells it so well:

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.