Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
by Stu Shea
What’s in a Name?
Elijah Dukes will use his fists,
Delmon Young has room to grow.
James Shields gives protection to his team.
Jorge Cantu just can’t play,
And Jae Ryu’s goose is Kuked,
While Carlos’ twinge of Pena makes him scream.
But nothing Maddons a manager more
Than giving up a five-run lead,
Burning a bullpen
That sucks indeed.
Posted after the Rays gave up six runs in the bottom of the ninth to lose to the Blue Jays, 12-11, on June 5.
As I sat in Section 660
Above the field where Gehrig trod,
I cursed the Yankees’ inept play
And muttered grudging praise to A-Rod.
Then a booming voice erupted,
Rattling beams and shaking sod.
Had sanity up and left me?
Or did I just hear the voice of God?
All eyes sought out the owner’s box
Where George S. kept his shrimp-stuffed bod.
What revelation would be uttered that
Had this crowd’s undies in a wad?
There stood Rocket Roger to declaim
(Feel free whenever to applaud)
That he’d weighed golf versus sleeping late,
And deigned to give the Yanks the nod.
“Hooray!” bellowed the drunken crowd,
Mouths agape like fresh-caught cod.
Yet I sat there with no response,
Unmoved, unsure, ungaped, unawed.
The feeling grew within me
With more than one fantod,
That this mercenary egomaniac
Wouldn’t rescue this year’s squad.
He’d win a game or three and show
His skills were not a fraud,
Then retire again, then change his mind,
A greedy, charmless, pumped-up clod.
Though many things, George S. is not
A cowardly tightwad,
But bills come due. Next year our costs
Will feel quite like a doctor’s prod.
by Stu Shea
So Roger’s coming back at last.
Be still my heart that beats so fast!
Forgive me if I seem to joke
At Clemens’ latest blow of smoke.
The baseball world stands, mouth agape
As Rocket Man adjusts his cape.
Forgive me if this time I sit
And disregard this silly shit.
It’s not as if he’ll join my team,
So why should I, like others, scream,
“Roger’s back! Oh, praise the Lord!”
If my team his paycheck can’t afford?
“He wants a ring! He loves the game!”
The song remains fore’er the same.
“It’s not the money, not the perks,
It’s ’cause he loves his baseball, jerks!”
So Big George forks up mega-mills
For 15 visits to the hill.
(He doesn’t have to hang around
Those days when he’s not on the mound.)
His “veteran leadership” and arm
Calm Torre’s typical alarm.
But is it right to pay and pay
A guy who plays the game this way?
No matter what his season holds,
I’m waiting til next year unfolds,
And he retires, the spoiled dunce,
And keeps a promise just this once.
My wife has up and left me,
Once the object of her lust.
Now she’s hitting the clubs with a biker named Dubs,
–But at least the Yankees lost.
An audit’s hit my company.
My future’s bitten the dust.
You can forward my mail to a federal jail.
–But at least the Yankees lost.
We’re spreading our democracy,
Whatever may be the cost,
Or whether the others are given their druthers.
–But at least the Yankees lost.
Atmosphere’s been heating up,
Melting the permafrost.
The polar bears lately can’t count on their safety.
–But at least the Yankees lost.
Famine, wars, disease and hate–
Our poor world is tempest-toss’d.
I cannot tell you why we must suffer and die.
–But at least the Yankees lost.
Trekking to a mountain wise man,
I registered my disgust.
“Dear pilgrim,” said he, “what will be will be
–But at least the Yankees lost!!”