Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
by James Finn Garner
David Ortiz can now be called
Red white and blue,
An All-American yahoo!
A Back Bay Brahmin,
Green Mountain slammin’,
Star-Spangled-Bannerin’
True Blue All-American!
But it’s safe to say Big Papi
Won’t let you call him a Yankee.
Posted 6/23/08
By Stuart Shea
One little piece of skin,
The size of a child’s little finger,
Can bring a big man down.
The pain will linger
for David Ortiz,
For at least three weeks.
He’s in a cast…geez.
Like a mouse to an elephant,
A torn tendon sheath
Doesn’t sound significant
But to a guy
Who depends on his wrists
It’s a poke in the eye
And a full-arm cast
And a lot of sitting.
How long the pain will last
Is not clear…
But it could go all year.
Posted 6/10/08
by James Finn Garner
Tiger cub Freddy Dolsi’s
First major-league pitch
Was to Manny Ramirez.
(Now, ain’t that a bitch?)
Freddy went down the middle
To show off his heat.
Manny clobbered that apple
Five hundred feet.
The much-touted Tigers
Can’t seem to catch flame
With their pitchers untested,
Senescent or lame.
To young Freddy we wish an
Improved rookie year.
Every guy’s not Ramirez,
But it’s uphill from here.
Posted 5/20/08
BALTIMORE
Is it too late to call Cal?
Or even Bob Bonner?
With Hernandez or Fahey, the season’s a goner.
BOSTON
The pitching staff is shot to hell.
With Schilling, Beckett, and Colon unwell,
They’re Dice-rolling at the opening bell.
CHICAGO
Will the Sox get greedy
With Crede?
Watch your back, Ozzie—or, rather, watch Joe’s.
CLEVELAND
It’s time for the talent to show.
And with any luck (please, God)…
Maybe a new logo?
DETROIT
No injury worries—not even a tinge!
When any Tiger feels a twinge,
They’ll call on Brandon Inge.
KANSAS CITY
Tote that Bale, lift that Gload,
Another long year in KC?
Or a renaissance? These kids are beginning to be.
LOS ANGELES
K-Rod,
And Vlad the Impaler,
And a bunch of young pitchers hopping out of a trailer.
MINNESOTA
No cash for Johan or Torii,
But there’s money for Nathan—within reason—
Though he pitches just 70 innings a season.
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND
The Yankees won’t listen to reason!!
They’ll pull out their Wang
To open the season!!
OAKLAND
What’s that sound from the Street?
Is it Foulke music so sweet?
Oh, it’s Rich Harden’s shoulder, grinding like meat.
SEATTLE
Half the team has reached the big three-oh,
And aside from Ichiro,
There’s a lot of “don’t know.”
TAMPA BAY
They sent Longoria to Triple-A
To reduce his service time? Feh!
This franchise is still the pride of Mephistofele.
TEXAS
Trouble children, like Bradley and Hamilton,
And a pitching staff
Of no wheat and all chaff.
TORONTO
Toronto has Coats.
Maybe they’ll avoid
A cold April.
Posted 3/31/08
Actually, by Hart Seely
His new book, Mother Goose Goes to Washington: Nursery Rhymes for the Political Barnyard, is now available from Simon & Schuster.
.
Once upon a midnight era, while I pondered Yogi Berra,
O’er many our Babes and Scooters, men of dynasties of pinstriped lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
Like Big Pappi, loudly crapping, rapping ’bout some final score.
‘Tis some Redsock fan,’ I muttered, “drunken still, from 2004.”
“Only this, and nothing more.”
.
Ah, distinctly, I remember; we had rumbled through September,
‘Till our Bronxian troops had snatched a Wild Card from the Tigers’ drawer.
Anxiously, I sought each morrow; for our foes, I’d feel no sorrow,
For we would beg or steal or borrow, tomorrow would be ours for sure.
Beating down the Redsocks in a way no Gammons could ignore,
Owning them, forevermore.
.
Though some hitters could be chilling, we’d take pleasure on Curt Schilling,
Crushing balls of gopher, wreaking havoc like in times of yore;
And in my heart, though feeling clammy, I imagined beaning Manny,
Manny, being Manny, on his fanny, writhing on the floor.
Send them home as losers, and to us, a series ring restore!
Champions soon, and evermore!
.
“Suddenly, I felt a shudder, sensed a faint, familiar flutter,
In flew a stubbled chin of rubbled skin of double-grubbled gore.
And there before me, face a-twitter; t’was the famed Piazza-hitter;
He of filth and cheese and splitter, Roger Clemens at my door!
Bigger than Giambi, wide and pinstriped at my chamber door.
Big he was, as Michael Moore.
.
“Beast!” said I, “Fiend full of might! What evil brings you here tonight?
“What lures you out of Texas to this distant place and littered shore?
“Ancient one, so grand and pro, who hurled for us, once, long ago,
“Tell me, creature, large as train, that we’ll rule the Socks again!
“Send them home as losers, and to George a series ring restore?
Quoth the Rocket… “Nevermore.”
.
Soon to FOX, my eyes were peering, long I sat there watching, cheering,
Certain we’d beat Cleveland, for we’d always beaten them before.
Andy, Moose, Chien-Ming Wang! How could anything go wrong?
But then again, I bent to cussing; ’round our heads I felt a buzzing,
Bugs and mites and pop-ups; we were roasted, toasted, out in four.
Quoth the Rocket. “Nevermore.”
.
And so the Rocket, once rehired, now sits resting, home, retired;
While tears of Susyn Waldman stain the paint upon my chamber door.
For in his eyes was all the seeming of a Redsock who’d been scheming,
And now his Boston fans are streaming, gleaming from the drinks they pour;
And my team, from hell itself, a curse we’re facing to be sure…
It shall be lifted. nevermore.
.
You can see more of Hart’s poetry and Yankee silliness at his blog, IT IS HIGH, IT IS FAR, IT IS…..caught.
Posted 10/31/07