Loves Duran Duran
But will take a paz
Likes watching “The Apprentice”.
“What I can’t figure out, man,
Is where they found a talking orangutan.”
Is the big kahuna
In Miami’s centerfield
By Red Groom’s carnival sculpture he’s almost concealed.
Took his chances
With a street vendor’s tamales
And is now very solly.
by the Village Elliott
For the McCovey Cove Splash Hit at Pac Bell Park
Two years since last adjusting “Splash Sign”,
Brandon Belt smashed Splash Hit 69.
Since Belt hit 68,
Reckon it’s Brandon’s fate
To splash next one when stars realign.
Visitors have splashed 17 more.
Three foes hit three each, no one’s hit four.
Over half Jints’ number
Off Barry Bond’s lumber–
Quite impressive when smashed splash hits soar.
by Robert Hilliard
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleacher seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.
And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.
Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.
There was sweet swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?
We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.
Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.
Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.
A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
For shame! For shame!
Rest in Peace, Ebbets Field.
Rest in Peace, Brooklyn Dodgers.
by Stephen Jones
It was Old Timers’ Day
At Yankee Stadium:
Familiar names played the field;
Yogi was remembered.
The banter in the booth
Was long on lore and tooth
And was like the game itself:
A scrapbook of past and present–
Because baseball never gets old.
By James Finn Garner
On this beautiful summer day in June
The Royals rise and the White Sox swoon
The Astros still dream of their trip to the moon
The Red Sox hope they aren’t peaking too soon
While the Yanks obsess over things picayune
The Rangers and Jays field their share of goons
Tampa ponders a move to Saskatoon. . .
And Epstein’s still the smartest guy in the room.