Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Yadi Molina was taken aback
He thought Nelson Cruz was up there to hack.
But the catcher got thrown by this request:
“Please snap a quick pic of me and Joe West.”
Nelson Cruz stopped the All-Star Game to pose for a photo with umpire Joe West
Yadi Molina: still catches, throws, hits,
But also could be the next (Annie) Liebowitz.
Joey Votto
Never gets blotto
But does enjoy the occasional beer
With that crazy Molina, Yadier.
Ender Inciarte
Prefers Commedia dell’arte
And Restoration plays
To the pap on B’way these days.
Nolan Arenado
Boasts much bravado
But jumps high as a glider
When surprised by a spider.
Nelson Cruz
Hates to lose,
Which makes his time in Seattle
More of a battle.
Jose Quintana
Can drive up the Dan Ryan-a
Take the Drive over
And finally pitch in October.
Before the Fall gets underway,
Let us doff our caps and say
Goodbye to those who’ll junk their cleats,
Leave the park and walk the streets.
Super-versatile Angel Chone
Will now be the utility man at home.
Grant Balfour, hothead Aussie,
Can only fume when his wife gets bossy.
Phil Humber’s vaunted perfect game
Was his sole stat worth noting (such a shame).
The Prince has trouble with his neck–
He’ll inspire no more fear on-deck.
Tex and A-Rod will leave the Yanks
And all their fans will mumble thanks,
While Raf Soriano has called an end
To tell war stories, a fine fireman.
But let’s not forget the other guys,
Young tyros once, with starry eyes,
Who gave their all but somehow missed
The general manager’s call-up list.
They’re just as key to the game as any
Adam LaRoche or Brad Penny.
Talent, drive and dreams they bid,
Just like us when we were kids.
Only the first name necessary
Japan’s hitting master
3000 hits at age 42
As talented in the field
As at bat
His success
Paved the way
For other Japanese position players
Fans wonder
What he’d have done
Had he reached the Major leagues
Earlier
Few would argue
Ichiro is a truly singular talent
And should be a cinch Hall of Famer
As the end of his playing days appears,
I need to ask: Whither A-Rod?
There’ll be no other player left at his tier
On whose neck you can gleefully trod.
No gaffes to rehash, no mistakes to cheer,
No insinuations on his bod,
No schadenfreude thoughts to slur in your beer
That he’s a bum, a starlet, a fraud.
You won’t see Alex this time next year,
And the absence you’ll feel will be odd
Til you choose someone else, with your conscience so clear,
And condemn him like an Old Testament God.