Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
When dolphins fly,
When nuns wear heels,
When lakes go dry. . .
Then Stanton steals!
When box scores lie,
When kings cut deals,
When fans ask, “Why?”
Then Stanton steals!
When Royals cry,
“He has no wheels.”
It’s time to try. . .
And Stanton steals!
Originally posted on the indispensable Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is…caught.
The summer wind was blowin’ out
At least half the year.
When Soto hit and Judge ran wild,
And we dreamed of golden rings.
Two monsters and the summer wind.
Like painted kites
Those long-ball nights
They went flyin’ by.
The world was new
’Neath a pinstriped blue
Umbrella sky.
Then worse than
Poor Gleyber ran
Cashman sent it askew.
We lost it with the summer wind.
The autumn wind,
The winter wind
Will come and go.
As Giants fall,
And Knicks appall,
Through another barren winter.
And yes those days,
Those dismal days
Will drag on and on.
As Gleyber clings
And Soto brings
Cheer to Flushing Meadow.
Where the hell can we go?
We’ll just have to wait,
For that same-old, same-old summer wind.
Originally appeared in the indispensable Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is…caught.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
But I know little about the game
And be one GM, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
Then traded for some broken arms;
I sold the farm, but just as fair,
And since I’m great at 4D chess,
I got some prospects, worse for wear;
And gave them to our training staff
Who never really know or care,
And then I sat back, thinking hard
The sky had started snowing fast.
The season was over, just for us!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I thought that I might win next year.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
I bought a has-been hitter, and put
together a rotten farm, but I sleep well
Hal don’t care, that makes all the difference.
This first appeared on the indispensable Yankee website, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is….caught.
From the 4/5/55 Cleveland Plain Dealer:
Yank pitching rook, one Johnny Kucks,
Is looking like one million Bucks
And kindly let me hear no More,
If possible, of one Herb Score.
They just auctioned off the shirt
Worn by the Babe when he put the hurt
On the Cubs in the Series of ’32.
We all fall for this dippity-do
Of the “called shot”, yet
The Babe himself plumb forgot
To mention it ’til 20 years later,
Making it a stale, strange tater.
Would Cubs pitcher Root, further,
Not have wished that showboat murder
And thrown a fastball at his ear
Next time up, to local cheers?
It’s a myth, okay? A tall tale, a fable.
Just ‘cuz the sellers say they are able
To verify the jersey through “photo-match”,
And other wits say aye, the whole klatsch
Is in the end a suspicious familia,
All making bank on each other’s memorabilia.
What was true then is true now, don’t be mistaken:
There’s one born every minute, and two to take him.
