Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Chicago White Sox
Best to seek new park
Before taking the field with
A terrible team.
Cleveland Guardians
An empty cave, just
Like the Guardians’ lineup,
Hasn’t any bats.
Detroit Tigers
Actual prospects,
Bringing April to those who
Want to hope again.
Kansas City Royals
Tethered by contract,
Regardless of performance—
To Witt: 11 years.
Minnesota Twins
By the river live
Siblings united by love
For their baseballists.
Been battered by Boggs and peppered by Pudge.
Dented by Dustin and jarred by A. Judge.
Pounded by Papi and tattooed by ‘Tek.
They call me the Monster, but I ain’t no Shrek.
For 89 years I’ve endured much abuse.
From a diet of line drives, my screws are all loose.
Remodeled by Ripken, mangled by Manny.
Yaz played my caroms, but then spanked my fanny.
My favorite New England season? Winter!
(That’s when I laid low from that Splendid Splinter.)
Was walloped by Winfield, rattled by Rice.
Killebrew concussed me, not once but twice.
Two decades ago, they put seats on my head!
(“Stop playing the martyr,” my therapist said.)
So tall that I fall prey to mid-section shots,
from Boomers and Deweys, to Mookies and Trots.
Some were mere scrapes, yet others… keelhaulings.
But the name I loathe most has got to be “Rawlings.”
Smirky baseballs, too big for their britches,
marking me up with horsehide and stitches.
Well, karma’s a bitch and revenge soothes the soul—
last week against KC, I swallowed one whole.
Do not shrug me off as some iconic feature;
I am a mean, green, most gluttonous creature.
Pay heed, Fenway faithful, the beast’s been unleashed.
The warning track knows that quite soon … I … SHALL … FEAST!
Well that’s something we’ve never seen before. pic.twitter.com/3eFMzCQ3hC
— NESN (@NESN) August 10, 2023
Michael X. Ferraro was the sports editor of Boston University’s award-winning Daily Free Press, which enabled him to ponder the Green Monster on the Fenway grass with the likes of Sam Horn, Marty Barrett, Sparky Anderson, Jim Walewander and Lee Smith. More recently, he is the author of Circus Catch, a satirical sports novel set in the golden age of American Cheating.
Writing poetry gave me a different satisfaction
than what playing baseball provided me
The biggest difference, interestingly enough,
was that, the lower the stakes,
the more power the critics had:
no amount of their vitriol
could take a save away from me
or change any game’s result,
unlike in poetry
The season is done, the jocks are stored
Only two teams are left on the board
Let’s pause now, while for Friday we wait,
And salute the retirements of a few greats.
Pujols hit his 700th for the Cards
And now will have time to work on his yard.
Bosox and Cubs champ Jon Lester
Now is an official hammock tester.
Music lover Kurt Suzuki
Can learn the banjo or bouzouki
After the majors, Ádrian González played on
But after this year, A-Gon done gone.
Melky Cabrera, the man and the myth,
Will star in community theater: “The Melkman Cometh.”
And if anyone’s looking for J.A. Happ,
He’s out on the patio, taking a nap.
In the Midwest we’re not prone to bragging
We like socks with sandals and double-bagging
We like a 30-pack and jerky from Kasey’s
And are still suspicious of Macy’s.
We don’t get too big for our britches
Unless the subject is hot dishes.
We take our time reaching decisions
And are in no rush to win the division.
