Browse all poems and songs in the 'Ballparks' Category


Underneath the Colors

by Dave Mesrey

I’ve seen Cobb and Ruth
roaming below
Shoeless Joe
DiMaggio

Goslin, Cochrane
and Schoolboy Rowe
Dizzy and Medwick
and Murderers Row

I’ve seen Gehrig and Greenberg
the Bomber, the Bull
The Kid and Jackie Robinson
and a house that was full

Jimmy Brown
and Bobby Layne
Old Lem Barney
and Night Train Lane

Yogi and Mickey
Gator and Cash
Don Wert’s single
Kaline’s mad dash

Lolich and Denny
Ozzie and Jake
Old Frank Feneck
at the All-Star break

Seen Marvin
Sing the anthem
Feliciano in blue

It changed the game
and America, too

Saw Horton nail Brock
Dock Ellis in shock

Saw Chuck Hughes fall
Where Butkus stood tall

Saw The Bird in his roost
Saw Gibby and Goose

Sparky and Rozey
Trammell and Lou
Mandela and Rosa
Little Stevie, too

Then Fick hit the roof
and the lights went out
And the ballpark crumbled
and the weeds did sprout

I watched as the diamond
Grew riven with trash
The basepaths and outfield
Scattered with ash

But the weeds were cut
and the field restored
And the heavens opened
and the rains, they poured

Navin Field
Our bond is true
Through the years
No matter the hue

I was lean
I was green
I grew rusty and blue

Like Harvey Kuenn
and Rod Carew

I am tall
I am frail

I am old
and I am grey

I am the flagpole
And I am all that remains

 

This poem first appeared in the blog for the Navin Field Grounds Crew.



$200 Dollars Gets You …

by Stephen Jones

An ivy leaf from Wrigley Field

It must be like a fine wine,
vintage 2016

And that doesn’t include S&H,
which is $15 per leaf And
there’s a limit: 10 leaves/customer

Why so few–
is there a shortage?
Or is it concern–
that too many leaves
makes a bouquet?

Nonetheless, it is a leaf

and not some dirt,
like the Yankees sold one time
That’s right–it was dirt,
just plain dirt

At least the leaf grew–and
flourished–just like the team.

 



The Canning of Mr. Met

by James Finn Garner

With apologies (not really needed) to Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in a season’s run
.   By the characters ’round Citi Field
The yardbird gramps will loiter on ramps
.   And tell you to keep your eyes peeled.
The borough of Queens has staged horrible scenes
.   But the horriblest of them yet
Was a dark night in May, with the team put away,
.   We got flipped off by Mr. Met.

Now Mr. Met, let no one forget,
.   Has been around since the Amazin’s began.
The face of the team had a smile that beamed
.   Brighter than any real Gotham man.
So when miserable play, day after day,
.   Leaves the line twixt patience and torture blurred
It should be no surprise that even this guy
.   Is reduced to giving the bird.

The Brewers had bombed ol’ Jacob deGrom
.   And, heckled by some random slob,
Mr. Met let loose with a low-flying goose
.   And now is out of a job.
When you see him there, in the crowd in Times Square,
.   Taking snaps for tips with Iowa teens
With Elmo and Kermit, slow down and permit
.   Him to reflect on what might have been.

 



September 23, 1908

by Laura Weck

In baseball, as it is in life,
Not always everything will stay the same–
Rules may change further down the road
As they could in a baseball game.

In life when you err, you may
at times find an atoner,
But not so with baseball
and “Fred Merkle’s Boner.”

Though there was great world news
Back in those days,
Nothing could overshadow
Poor Fred’s Bonehead play

That year was a roller-coaster
Predicting which of the teams might play
and that was only decided
On the season’s very last day.

That stellar season would provoke
Even Joe Tinker to rub,
“If you don’t furiously hate the Giants,
You aren’t really a Cub.”

After that year I can’t fathom
That ever again there will be
As thrilling a contest, as that on
September twenty-three.

It was the bottom of the ninth
The score tied one to one,
With Merkle standing at first
and anxious to run.

The Polo Ground fans were a rowdy bunch
Often storming the field
After a tumultous win, never imagining
Their team to another would yield.

New York’s Birdwell hit one
Allowing McCormick get home.
Rookie Merkle rounded second, then
To the clubhouse he’d roam.

The fans stormed the field not knowing
Johnny Evers had been guaranteed
A new rule that now
The players must heed.

The folks perched on poles
Came close to falling.
When New York got the loss
The fans started bawling.

They spat and they fought
When they learned of the loss.
So irate the ump, to the stands
The “winning” ball he’d toss.

In public they jeered him.
They told him he stank.
So distraught was Fred Merkle
His tombstone was left blank.

 



Is Baseball Too Slow for Modern Times?

by Stephen Jones

If you breathe analytics
And you eat numeral cryptics…
You will probably say so.

(And don’t forget the younger fanbase.
It wants everything like a race,

Where even a ballpark’s serenity
May get tweaked by “modernity”.)

But if you sit in the stadium,
Where its roar is like an ocean…
Most will definitely say “No”.

(For them, it’s like a small vacation
From the day-to-day vexation;

For them, it’s like a vertical beach,
With dog and beer in easy reach.)

Timeless, baseball’s a contradiction;
That’s a part of its evolution.
It’s a “hurry up” place … to go slow.

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.