Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Consider the case of Lastings Milledge,
Career on the wane and prospects pillaged.
So many chances, not one of them clicked.
Now playing Triple A out in the sticks.
How cruelly ironic to have that first name,
Success was so fleeting throughout his game.
Drafted and signed with ado and aplomb,
but the years and the game rolled crushingly on.
To what sort of player can you really relate:
The superstars, scrubs — or should-have-been-greats?
The White Sox must be the only act around
Who can spend $120 million
And not produce a hit
In Motown.
How many chances will Melky get
To try and make us forget?
Once a prospect,
Now he’s not.
As leadoff man,
He ain’t so hot.
Where’s the power he used to show?
Where’s the speed?
Why can’t he throw?
K.C. may be the last stop.
When will the penny drop?
‘Twas octval, and the pravish thrim
Did glate and glibble in the grome
All woolsy were the vitrenim
As the tegris wrast bethrome.
“Beware the Wockenfuss, my son!
The glove that claws, the cleats that slash!
Beware the corn-can-cut, and shun
The pronvistle mustache!”
He took the vorpal orb in hand:
Seeking with nails the laven stitch
And scrying he the fingers three
He gathered up to pitch.
A sinewed serpent’s coil, it stood
The Wockenfuss, with legs askew
It wiffled and glaved the winding wood
And ellipsed, as he threw.
One, two! And three! No contact he
The knuckleball went snicker-snack!
It spun in place, and in disgrace
It went galumphing back.
“Thou hast slain the Wockenfuss?
Hand me the sphere, my roogish gent.
Callooh! Callay! That’s all today.”
And to the showers he went.
‘Twas octval, and the pravish thrim
Did glate and gliddle in the grome
All woolsy were the vetrinem
As the tegris wrast bethrome.
Patrick Dubuque writes the blog The Playful Utopia.
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.