Browse all poems and songs in the 'Minnesota Twins' Category


Twin Tales

by James Finn Garner

Rod Carew
Swung as smooth
As warm cashew
Butter

While Killebrew
Did tattoo
Many a drooping
Cutter

Jim Kaat
Knew thaat
His curve could make baats
Flutter

Jim Perry
Never varied
Or cheated like his hairy
Brutter

 



Underneath the Colors

by Dave Mesrey

I’ve seen Cobb and Ruth
roaming below
Shoeless Joe
DiMaggio

Goslin, Cochrane
and Schoolboy Rowe
Dizzy and Medwick
and Murderers Row

I’ve seen Gehrig and Greenberg
the Bomber, the Bull
The Kid and Jackie Robinson
and a house that was full

Jimmy Brown
and Bobby Layne
Old Lem Barney
and Night Train Lane

Yogi and Mickey
Gator and Cash
Don Wert’s single
Kaline’s mad dash

Lolich and Denny
Ozzie and Jake
Old Frank Feneck
at the All-Star break

Seen Marvin
Sing the anthem
Feliciano in blue

It changed the game
and America, too

Saw Horton nail Brock
Dock Ellis in shock

Saw Chuck Hughes fall
Where Butkus stood tall

Saw The Bird in his roost
Saw Gibby and Goose

Sparky and Rozey
Trammell and Lou
Mandela and Rosa
Little Stevie, too

Then Fick hit the roof
and the lights went out
And the ballpark crumbled
and the weeds did sprout

I watched as the diamond
Grew riven with trash
The basepaths and outfield
Scattered with ash

But the weeds were cut
and the field restored
And the heavens opened
and the rains, they poured

Navin Field
Our bond is true
Through the years
No matter the hue

I was lean
I was green
I grew rusty and blue

Like Harvey Kuenn
and Rod Carew

I am tall
I am frail

I am old
and I am grey

I am the flagpole
And I am all that remains

 

This poem first appeared in the blog for the Navin Field Grounds Crew.



That Gallant Pirate Crew

by James Francis Burke

From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, October 16, 1925, when the Pirates vanquished the Senators after being down 3-1 in the World Series.

Were it not for Prohibition,
Which has made the country dry,
I’d fill a wine glass brimming
And lift it toward the sky
And drink a royal bumper —
In fact, I’d make it two —
To good old Bill McKechnie
And his gallant Pirate crew.

But wine is gone forever —
At least, that’s what I hear,
And hence a thirsty poet
Can only stand and cheer
For those whose names are written
‘Mid the skies eternal blue:
The names of Barney Dreyfus
And his gallant Pirate crew.

The Capital’s in mourning,
But the nation’s all arrayed
In the colors of the rainbow
Whose bright hues never fade.
For the Buccaneers are victors —
One can hardly think it’s true —
So here’s to Bill and Barney
And their gallant Pirate crew.

The dear old slow Potomac’s
Filled with tears from shore to shore;
The stately public buildings
Have crepe on every door;
While diplomats and statesmen
Have nothing left to do
But envy good old Pittsburgh
And her gallant Pirate crew.

But let’s be fair, my comrades,
And give the “Nats” their due:
They played the game like heroes,
Like sportsmen good and true.
And here’s a fan’s confession,
A tip twixt me and you:
It was not summer picnic
For our gallant Pirate crew.

 



All-Star Clerihews, Part I

Tito Francona
Is a bona
Fide baseball Einstein.
We hope real soon he’ll be feeling fine.

Alex Wood
Pitches so good
He can play in-
Stead of the injured Clayton.

Jonathan Schoop
Is no dope–
For Miami, bought sunscreen
And some Word Search magazines.

Miguel Sano
Bit into a poblano
And let out a roar
Due to a cold sore.

 



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!

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.