Posted on

Wilson Betemit, Never Ever Get a Hit

by Hart Seely

First base Wilson Betemit
Never ever-ever gonna get a hit.
Pitcher never even have to sweat a bit.
Not with Wilson Betemit.

Second base Wilson Betemit.
Squats like old man take a shit.
Swings like girl with a fake-a-tit.
No good Wilson Betemit.

Shortstop Wilson Betemit.
Called strike three he throw a fit.
On the bench he should-a-sit.
Be gone Wilson Betemit.

Third base Wilson Betemit.
Plays like do not give a whit.
Someday soon he ought-a-quit.
Sick of Wilson Betemit.

Hart Seely is the author of the hilarious Mother Goose Goes to Washington, as well as Oh Holy Cow: The Selected Verse of Phil Rizzuto, newly released in a 15th-anniversary edition. He often hangs around the Yankee website, It is High, It is Far, It is….caught, offering tasteful and constructive comments to management and players alike.

Posted 9/29/08

Posted on

Only In New York

by Sid Yiddish

My hair grows gray upon hearing the news that they’ll soon be closing Shea.
Not that it seems fair, but the graying of my hair comes on the heels, that
The House That Ruth Built is giving way to a brand new stadium, just because team owners weren’t happy enough with what they had before.

Out with the old, in with the new.
The cost tremendous, but guess who pays it?
Why it’s me & you!

Yes, it’s us, the ordinary fans, we always get stuck with the bill, but as they say in New York, time marches on.

Still, I’ll bet you 10 to 1, that’s not what Moose or Seaver would have said.

For more on Sid Yiddish’s poetry, music and performances, check out his My Space page.

Posted 9/25/08

Posted on

There Was A House

by Hart Seely

There was a House that Ruth Built
Beloved throughout the town.
It didn’t please the millionaires,
And so they tore it down.

It didn’t have a steak house.
No discos could be found.
The catered boxes were too few,
And so they tore it down.

They wailed about necessity,
Each face portrayed a frown,
But ticket prices were too low,
And so they tore it down.

They cried about tradition.
Great anguish, all around.
But money calls the shots these days,
And so they tore it down.

They’ll tell you how the clubhouse stank,
From sewers underground.
They never thought of fixing things.
They simply tore it down.

Oh, somewhere, fans still celebrate,
Great ballparks of renown.
There’ll be no joy in Mudville.
They went and tore it down.

Posted 9/22/08

Posted on

Dreadlocks in the Wind

by JHB

Goodbye, Manuel Aristides,
At times we all were far too cruel,
But you had the grace to point both hands
While smilin’ like a fool.
They disparaged you in the Herald,
Made innuendoes in the Globe.
They chased you all around the Hub,
Caught in flashbulbs like a strobe.

And it seems to me you lived your life
With your dreadlocks in the wind,
Steppin’ quickly in the Monster
Just to take a whiz,
And you would have been our hero,
But you were just a kid.
Your time here ran out long before
Your legend ever did.

Manny being Manny’s tough,
The toughest role you ever played,
But your bat made you a superstar,
And pain’s the price you paid.
Even when you left,
The press still had too much to say.
All that Boston.com would comment
Was that Manny didn’t want the trade.

And it seems to me you lived your life
With your dreadlocks in the wind,
Catchin’ flies and givin’ high-fives
Before you’d throw it in,
And you would have been our hero,
But you were just a kid,
Your time here ran out long before
Your legend ever did.

Goodbye, Manuel Aristides,
Though I never knew you at all,
You had the feel to play left field,
Fielding caroms off the Wall.
Goodbye, Manuel Aristides,
From the young boy in a Monster Seat,
Who saw you as something not so infantile,
Maybe what he would like to be,

And it seems to me you lived your life
With your dreadlocks in the wind,
If the role was just too much to bear,
It’s not as if you sinned,
And you would have been our hero,
But you were just a kid,
Your time here ran out long before,
Your legend ever did.

  Posted 9/10/08

Posted on

Sportswriter William Blake on the Yankees–Red Sox Game of 8/26

By Hart Seely

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold the playoffs in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A bullpen fill’d with doves and pigeons
Gives up runs thru’ all its regions.
A boat sunk at its master’s buoy
Predicts the ruin of our Matsui.

Each outgrowth of Giambi hair
A fibre from the brain does tear.
With Joba wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.

The A-Rod clipt and arm’d for fight
Hopes pitcher hurls from left, not right.
Every Pudge and Damon howl
Sends to hell a redsock soul.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has kill’t the fans that won’t believe.
The team that calls upon tonight
Shall send the loser home in fright.

Hart Seely is the author of the hilarious Mother Goose Goes to Washington, as well as Oh Holy Cow: The Selected Verse of Phil Rizzuto, newly released in a 15th-anniversary edition. He often hangs around the Yankee website, It is High, It is Far, It is….caught, offering tasteful and constructive comments to management and players alike.

Posted 9/8/08.