Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Farnsworth, Myers, Proctor: O, doctor.
How low can our spirits go?
We’re leading by nine in the last of the sixth.
And we’ll probably have to use Mo.
Farnsworth, Myers, Proctor, O, doctor.
Somebody pass me the Drano.
Our nine-run lead is now down to two.
And, O, God! Here comes Vizcaino.
(Hart’s site: It is High, It is Far, It is…caught)
Posted 8/1/07
A decade now of losing woes,
Of succumbing to the AL foes.
Ten long years of losing flings
As other teams collect their rings.
Since the glory days of Frank and Brooks,
When Palmer induced those nervous looks,
When Ripken played without much rest,
Before Palmeiro failed his test,
When Boog was more than BBQ’s,
Before the Yankees stole our Moose,
Back when Brady hit 50 dingers–
The memory of it barely lingers.
We still watch and hope and pray
That the Orioles will succeed someday,
That they will hit a winning stride
And let their fans feel joy and pride,
But for now we watch games rarely pleasin’,
And say, “At least there’s football season.”
Posted 7/23/07
By Stu Shea
The Red Sox game was thrilling,
A feast of pitching filling,
But the A’s hit lots of balls quite hard off Curt.
Some big plays saved his bacon,
And the plans that he was makin’
Fell to pieces as he got his just dessert.
Shannon Stewart foiled the no-no,
But Curt Schilling still won 1-0,
So he has to feel okay despite the shock.
And while he may feel abashed,
With his hist’ry-making dashed,
At least he didn’t bleed right through his sock.
In reference to Curt Schilling’s June 7 one-hitter.
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.