Dropping Like Flies

By Robert E. Petras

Dropping like flies Reverend Miller summed up
The demise of our latest late classmate.
Dropping like flies — could the Preach
Be referring to the late Johnny B,
Whose brief time spent on the baseball diamond
Was spent relegated to right field,
Perhaps the most important position
In that by filling it a team saved
Itself the ignominy of forfeiting, possibly extinction,
Because of being one player short,
Which, in the harsh truth, it probably was,
Because the field was filled
By the worst fielder on the team,
Besides the coach’s kid at shortstop,
A kid who couldn’t catch, couldn’t
Throw and couldn’t count,
And probably did not count, a dude
So uncoordinated he couldn’t match his socks,
A four-eyed, three-strike-out-called-out-
Looking artist, like Johnny B. Not Good,
Whose only positive field statistic recorded
Was an assist, a result from what
We called a charity hop from a pop fly that
Hippity-hopped off his head,
Snagged by our savvy, speedy centerfielder,
Whose name eludes me like a wild pitch.

As a classy class prez, I said
Dropping like dominoes, an assessment
Less cliché, more dramatic, more poetic,
More end-of-the-linish.
Dropping like dominoes, I repeated
For more dramatic, poetic effect.
Then I went on to expound in great detail
How our most recent class statistic
Ruled the playgrounds when dominoes,
Jacks and five-card stud were still in vogue,
And that Johnny B. Good still holds
The class record for the most dominoes dominoed
And knowing him he will no doubt
Go well beyond the eternal ten count.
Dropping like dominoes I said
So dramatically, so poetically, so final
Johnny B. got a standing O.

Robert E. Petras is a lifelong Pittsburgh Pirates fan who goes back three stadiums. A lover of baseball with a linebacker mentality, he played on the Marshall University Young Thundering Herd featured in the movie We Are Marshall. He is the author of three books: the humor collections River Rats and Release the Belgium, and the sci-fi novel, The Locust People (upcoming). All are available on Amazon and Kindle.

Go Get ‘Em, Tigers

by Millie Bovich

In baseball news, I’ve got a hunch
That the Tigers will finish first, that bunch.
Mistakes of the past
They will remedy fast
And there’s no more saying, “They’re out to lunch!”

 

A Yogi Poem

by Ralph Badagliacca

Shakespeare shaped the language.
Some say he invented it.
Wilde and Shaw spun expressions of unrelenting wit.
Whitman taught the mother tongue
How to sing for us;
Yeats scaled the beauty of her lonely peaks.
Joyce uncovered something new,
And so did Eliot.

But unlike Yogi, none of them could hit.

 

Taken from Ralph’s book, The Yogi Poems, available here

Mother Earth’s Favorite

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

Chaupai (quatrain) poetry celebrating Mangla and Rajesh’s 40th anniversary on Earth Day, April 22, 2024.

My children’s mother loves all four of them dearly, holds them closely,
Just as Mother Earth loves her seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
As a fan, she loves all sports: Big Four, Olympics, and kabaddi;
As a teacher, she loves all students: quiet, chatty, short, and tall.

Holding my breath, I ask Mother Earth if there is a favorite.
She holds my head in her hands and shakes it like a Raggedy Ann.
“How can I choose one over the other; a child is not a chit.”
I reply, “My Queen, not our kids, but sports. Does one claim you its fan?”

She sighs. “It cannot be football, for it is violent and vile.
How can I root for players whose handsome faces I cannot see?
No, Fall’s game that blitzes and throws bombs and bullets raises my bile.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is too high a fee.”

She freezes. “It is not hockey, for it neglects too many shades.
How can such a lovely sport be so limited in its pigment?
While it’s scintillating when pucks spring off of slap shots from curved blades,
I look around the ice, and skins brown and black are but a figment.”

She smiles. “It could be basketball; just see the boys and girls in shorts.
To be sure, there is so much beauty in this game of balls and nets.
Still, there is something unforgiving about wood and concrete courts.
To defend against Tex Winter’s Triangle Offense, one plays chess.”

She glows. “I should not choose between my offspring, for they all bring joy.
But it is baseball. It is baseball. Yes, it is our dear baseball.
After Winter’s snow melts, on grassy fields bats and balls we deploy.
A game for all ages and seasons, from Spring to Summer to Fall.”