Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Stephen Drew
Couldn’t hit his shoe
On the floor,
Then he walks in four.
Adam Wainwright
Could’ve pitched all night,
But maybe one less toss
To David Ross.
John Lester
Was no pitch molestor.
He could’ve saved himself the walk
Up to the chalk.
But Jacoby Ellsbury
Didn’t look like he had a worry
In the world,
Then a flare unfurled.
Maybe it’s too soon to comment . . .
But am I seeing baseball – while entertainment —
Not being played at the highest level meant?
What it might be, I am thinking,
Seems more like two boxers, each hoping
For the other’s over-a-rule stumbling
Or for a pick-off miscalculating.
Each mistake, it seems, wins a round.
The last man standing will hold the ground
In this series of fluke and luck.
When you’re brought in, it’s strictly for pace
Your one thought is be quick, win the race
But, whatever you do,
With two outs, down by two,
Don’t get caught — don’t get picked off the base.
What a ruckus! What fun! A debate!
They obstructed a run to the plate?
The call was the right one
The ballgame a tight one
Lightning struck; Sox were stunned; ain’t fall great?
Sung to the tune of “God Bless America”:
Saltalamacchia
Man with a glove
You’re a catcher
And I betcha
You’re the man Red Sox fans love to love!
From the fenways
To the heartland
And the places in between
Saltalamacchia!
You sure are keen!
Saltalamacchia!
You sure are keen!