In the winter they swarm to Caracas
Where the fans, true to form, shake maracas
.      Down there all the players
.      Don’t wear many layers
As the sun keeps them warm in the tuchas.

How could that squirrel
Send Roy Oswalt squirmin’?
Well, Cardinals eat seeds and
don’t hunt vermin.

The Cardinals are blanking the Astros again,
And they’ll make the playoffs if the Braves can’t win.
I wish I was there for this wild-card craze,
But I’m stuck in Seattle covering the A’s.

Hey! Tampa came back from a 7-0 hole,
Dan Johnson just tied it–right off the foul pole!
I’d love to be seeing the Yankees and Rays,
But I’m stuck in Seattle covering the A’s.

Did Baltimore really just walk off the Sox?
And Papelbon pull one more of his rocks?
So Tampa and St. Lou are in. I’m amazed
That I’m stuck in Seattle covering the A’s.

It’s cold in this pressbox at Safeco Field,
And watching a meaningless game is the yield.
The action is elsewhere, and it’s one of those days.
I’m stuck in Seattle covering the A’s.

Betsy says a friend of hers
went to high school with Kirk Gibson
and that he was stuck up even then.

Debbie says Frank is taking her
to one of those things
where they play two games in one day.
What’s it called, a double bubble?
She makes a face: I can hardly stand one game
much less two.

Jack, the burly security guard says
it’s too damn boring. Everybody
standing around picking their asses.

I sit at my desk
flipping through accounts, pulling overdrafts.
My ass squirms in padded comfort
longing for the bleacher’s hard bench.

Arnold says he likes it better
on tv. Why go to the ballpark,
he asks, and deal with the traffic
and the crowds?

Better on tv?
Get yer red hots heah!
Coke! Iiiiiiice Cooooold Coke!
Crack of bat on ball. Smell
of stale cigars and spilled beer.
Seventh inning stretch.
Cold beer in the sun.

Cold beer in the sun.
I bang my seat
to start up a rally.

Jim Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University.  His newest story collection, TRIGGER MAN: More Tales of the Motor City, is now available, and can be ordered from Amazon here.

Man in a white suit
Stealing signs for the Blue Jays
But they still don’t win.

In the stands the fans stick to their seats,
watching batter turn red as a beet.
.     Jersey clinging, he schvitzes
.     He swings and he misses
The pitcher is bringing the heat.

Check out Hilary’s other limericks at LimerWrecks.

To the bleachers a finger was pointed
With a homer the Babe was anointed
.    The fat patron saint
.    of a lack of restraint
His appetite came double-jointed.

.

“It’s a dump, Wrigley Field.” — Peter Gammons, radio interview

Peter Gammons is
A prep-school fool–uncool tool
Well past his sell date

.

My first Yankee game dad is taking us
I’m full of quiverings and pictures
About Mantle, Berra, Ford and
Suddenly we turn a corner in the Bronx
The giant stadium is looming over us
Vendors hawking banners, hats and badges
I’m drooling over all the souvenirs.

Dad tugs me through a turnstile
Then we join the flow streaming through our gate
One of many in the endless curving wall of Yankee Stadium
A hundred voices rumble echoing inside a tunnel,
Up a ramp and then another ramp
My skinny legs aching with impatience
Up another flight of steps
At last out into the open space
The playing field, the neatest grass and careful dirt and endless seats,
More people than I ever saw.
I gape at them, float above myself

A roar jolts me to attention
The Yankees poring from the dugout
A stream of heroes,
Spreading confident to their appointed places
Hats on hearts they face the flag
The anthem squawks
The game begins at last
I stand and sit and stand again
The plays move slow,
I savor them like ice cream.
Another wish fulfilled a boiled hotdog
Strangers hands pass it on to me
Draped in yellow mustard
I sniff it close, steaming still
My first bite tangy on my lips and tongue.
Washed down with coke and ice cubes for my chewing
Dessert: fresh peanuts
Shells collecting, covering my feet
My breath gets raw and stinky
So dad tells me
I don’t care
What I remember
Mantle hits a homer that never seems to end
The roar is deafening and wonderful,
Carries me into the sky
I hope the game will never end
It does
I sleep the whole way home.

Finally
The season,a month old
This weekend
My first trip to the park
Forgotten for an afternoon
Natural disasters
Political platitudes
A far too long winter
I’ll take a brat and a beer
Play ball !