Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
The kids from Charm City
Didn’t play so pretty
In their short series with the Rangers
But these orange sprats–
Good defense, strong bats–
To the postseason will not be strangers.
They play the game right,
Alert but not tight,
And act like a team, not selfish.
They outpaced the Rays
And will not go away,
Not unlike a batch of bad shellfish.
A hundred and sixty-two battles during the season
Fought, won or lost on stadium fields of green and dirt —
And where is my team now? It had so much promise
Last April, when everything was new and young,
And then it went to war. The summer-long campaign
Was rough, more games were lost than won —
And now it’s October. The stadium seats are empty,
The crack of the bat is gone, and only the ghosts of
“What if” whisper in the empty tunnels and locker room.
I don’t know why I bought the lie
The White Sox would be decent.
I don’t know how hamstrings go pow!
Bats and skills chill, like recent.
I don’t know why Reinsdorf tries
To hire within to change Fate.
I don’t know where Andrew Vaughn stares
While whiffing at the plate.
I don’t know how Robert feels now
And what Keynan and Lance had to say,
But I know one thing: the White Sox would bring
A bigger playoff crowd than Tampa Bay.
The Cubs of 1969:
A season with Hall of Famers,
But an ending not at all divine.
The Indians of 2005:
Chicago’s Pale Hose swept them
Like a beekeeper a beehive.
The Red Sox of 1978:
Bucky Bleepin’ Dent
Kept them from playoff’s gate.
The Blue Jays of 1987:
Many Canadians still mourn
Missing out on baseball’s heaven.
The Phillies of 1964:
“The Phold” phirmly closed
Access to the Fall Classic’s door.
Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University. His novel, Double Play, will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press.
I was waiting at the bar for a playoff date
And looked at my watch. It’s getting late.
Then I heard the emphatic bartender,
With his fist pump, mask, and chest protector,
Announce to the lingering, glassy patrons:
“It’s last call. Closing time,” he intones
As he wipes the bar, satisfied with himself,
And begins putting teams on the postseason shelf —
Brands like Atlanta, Los Angeles, Baltimore, Tampa
(and just maybe Seattle, Chicago, or Philadelphia) —
And as he does, he continues to drone:
“It’s hotel-motel time if you can’t go home,
But right now, you can’t stay here —
And hey, better luck when we open next year.”
Pictured is Baseball Bill Holdforth, bartender and rabid DC baseball fan. For the story of how he worked to keep owner Bob Short out of the US Senate, check out this story from washingtonbaseballhistory.com.