by James Finn Garner
It won’t be for his arm or savvy
Or the hits he gave up left and right.
What we’ll remember ’bout Geremi Gonzales
Is the way he would light up the night.
Posted in memory 7/21/08
Big Papi’s Big Hurt
By Stuart Shea
One little piece of skin,
The size of a child’s little finger,
Can bring a big man down.
The pain will linger
for David Ortiz,
For at least three weeks.
He’s in a cast…geez.
Like a mouse to an elephant,
A torn tendon sheath
Doesn’t sound significant
But to a guy
Who depends on his wrists
It’s a poke in the eye
And a full-arm cast
And a lot of sitting.
How long the pain will last
Is not clear…
But it could go all year.
Posted 6/10/08
Manny With His Flowing Locks
By Larry Epke
Manny with his flowing locks,
Left field, Boston Red Sox,
When he’s in the batter’s box,
Gives the ball some mighty knox!
Posted 10/26/2007
Stretch Run and No Manny
By Stu Shea
Where’s Manny?
Where’s Manny?
All Boston’s getting clammy.
The Red Sox are in danger of a troubling declanny.
If “Manny being Manny”
Means pulled muscle or strained hammy,
Opponents dance and laugh
Because he can’t give them the whammy.
If Terry F. is canny,
He’ll come up with a planny
To help the Red Sox win it
Even if they don’t have Manny.
But if Coco’s cold and Papelbon
Cannot escape a jammy,
The Fenway Faithful might cry out
For someone else…like…Sammy?!
Posted 9/26/07
For Rod Beck
When we heard of the death of The Shooter
We all grabbed a beer and a smoke…
And we toasted the long-ago memories
And the quick way he had with a joke.
He’s dead, just 38.
It makes no sense
To those of us here on the outside.
Why him? He seemed normal.
Never formal,
So unaffected by the fame
Of the great game,
But sometimes worlds don’t collide.
For some, there’s no life after baseball.
For some, there’s no way to adjust.
So he left his wife and two children
In a cloud of motorhome dust.
He’s dead, just 38.
He died alone
In Phoenix, for God’s sake.
It’s got to be a mistake.
Sure, he liked a beer and his cigarettes.
That was part of his character.
But beneath the veneer
Of that which is legal,
it all was much worse.
The curses
Of hard drugs and failure
Of arm injuries and rehab
Are tough on athletes
With nothing else to do.
You can’t fish all day.
You can’t drink beer all day.
But when you’re Rod Beck,
And the dream is gone,
What do you do with your time
But look for the next high
And kiss each day goodbye?