Browse all poems and songs in the 'Broadcasters' Category


Say Goodbye to These Retirees

by James Finn Garner

As the leaves turn from green to brown
And we rekindle antipathy for Joe Buck
Let’s recall players whose careers are done
And their stories of drive and hope and luck.

Jered Weaver, strikeout ace,
Can now just putter around his place.

Atlanta’s Frenchy, Jeff Francouer
Will now as a TV color man tour.

SF fans can thank Matt Cain
For embiggening the Jints again.

Likewise, Ryan Vogelsong
Can practice bird calls all day long.

Joe Nathan will have to find his thrill
Somewhere other than the bullpen hill.

And Nick Swisher, quintessential bro,
Will just leave a trail of grit where’er he goes.

To these and all other retirees
Thank you for the thrilling years.
Now, with us, relax near the TV,
Watch some playoff ball and enjoy some beers.

 



Requiem for the Giants’ 2017 Season

by the Village Elliott

Last Jints game of season,
One far less than pleasin’
With my cat, listen to game at home.
In this year of duress
Think it’s best I address
Feelings of this lost season in poem.

What happened to Giants
Defies BASEBALL science,
At least baseball science I know.
Headlines writ, couldn’t predict,
Absolute Throne’s edict:
“By Imperial ‘We’: Jints Shall Blow!”

(In case you’re confused,
Only three persons used
“The Imperial We,” Mark Twain said:
Absolutes in their realm,
Editors at the helm,
And those people with lice on their head!)

Since ’09, Jints’ best run:
Next eight years, three Crowns won–
Ninth year, pay butcher’s bill overdue.
It’s the stark final act
Of team’s Faustian pact,
Signed when offered, like most all would do.

Giants under-performed,
Strickland threw, Harper stormed,
I consider Jint’s Pitch-of-the-Year
Moore’s “Little League Double,”
Peaked “Jints’ Year of Trouble,”
Same game Buster’s beaned, since…it’s unclear.

Best position this year
Is at backstop, that’s clear,
Backup Hundley deserved “Willie Mac,”
And though Posey well hit
Power stroke went to shit.
Buster needs Nick to re-up and come back.

Backstops dinged up each game.
Soon they aren’t quite the same,
And we know, catcher’s hands first to go.
Hadley threw, Cochrane’s bumped,
“Iron Mike” quickly slumped,
Never was quite the same in the Show.

Too many got old,
Couldn’t be traded or sold,
Some hung on long past time to let go.
Few times team had hot spurt,
Shot when one hot got hurt,
No one picked up slack, down went the Show.

Team’s defense proved porous,
Outfield naught but tsuris,
Even Crawford’s play appeared unsteady.
Farm hands got their chance,
Called up to Big Dance,
They got hurt or showed they weren’t ready.

Starting pitchers, team’s strength
Thin in stretch, without length,
Bullpen overtaxed, oft over-ruled.
Belt’s, Panik’s concussion,
Hunts year-long discussion:
This Hot Stove, how are Giants retooled?

How will team be remade?
Sign free agents? Big trade?
Who will be on the roster next year?
Crawford, Mad Bum, Posey
Are “Untouchable Three,”
Still, one hundred games lost, nothing’s clear…

Holy shit, season ends
With blast Prodigal sends
To same place Pablo blasted Verlander.
With Friday’s game seized,
Matt Cain’s last start stress,
Panda provides poetic year-ender.

Thus ends “Season of Woe,”
Need break from Giant show,
Team is dead, no live games: Third and King;*
Still more likely than not,
Ere my cold stove gets hot,
I’ll be in training long before spring.

PS:

MVPs of Jints’ year
Are to me these four here:
Broadcasters Miller, Kruke, Kuip and Flem.
Kept me fully engaged,
All year channeled my rage,
I might have disengaged, but for them.

 

______________

* If Elwood Blues moved to San Francisco, California Nazis would look for him at the Willie Mays Statue located at the intersection of Third and King, the location AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.

In the Giants honor, when the city erected the statue of at the Park’s front entrance, they renamed it 24 Willie Mays Plaza.

 



Imagined Commentary During a Game

by Stephen Jones

During a game, a commentator —
an ex-ball player — once said:
a manager’s job is hard.

“OK, so you’ve got twenty-five
children in a dugout …
and each one wants to be
treated just so different.

“I mean, it’s hard … I mean,
they all love to play the game,
right? But when you got children,
I mean, grown men who mebbe

“don’t wanna grow up, well,
then the manager’s got to be
part teacher, part mentor …
and also some kind of juggler.

“And all this while skating on thin ice —
dealing with egos and tantrums
and you-name-it?… No, no thank you.
Hey, believe me, I’m glad I got the

“chance to play in big league games —
that’ll never go away — but dealin’
with all that other stuff? No way.”

 



TV and the Twilight (Strike) Zone

by Stephen Jones

I watched in disbelief.
I can’t get no relief –
From an umpire whose eyesight
Is worse than a badger’s.

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was then, in my chair,
That I yawned tired air.
I dropped the remote,
And the room did darken . . .

.     And a carny voice did harken:
.     “Hur-ray! Hur-ray!
.     An instant baseball fan solution –
.     Coming soon, to your television.

.     “Fans – are you tired of bad calls?
.     Does the umpire need a vision check?
.     Do you think the strike zone
.     Moves around too much?

.     “Well then, have no fear –
.     The solution, it’s right here.
.     It’s called ‘Auto-Strike’ –
.     The new e-lec-tronic game in town.

.     “So, say goodbye to tradition
.     And the curse of bad vision.
.     ‘Auto-Strike’ will cure
.     Each and every umpire call!”

.     (Disclaimer: The Salem’s Lot Nine
.     Will now miss its boo-and-hiss time
.     And the ever-popular fan favorite –
.     Burning umpires at the stake.)

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

I shifted in my chair,
Of the game unaware,
And continued my reverie
Of balls, strikes . . . and late-night TV.

.      Laughter came from off-screen,
.     From an audience of the dream,
.     And there was a smirking host
.     Who thought he was being clever:

.     “Just to be clear . . . the ball is scanned,
.     Just like cereal or a country ham
.     Off a bar code at a grocery store?
.     And what would happen then,

.     “If it didn’t correctly scan in?
.     This is baseball, not a market,
.     And you just can’t call out:
.     ‘Hey . . . price check, aisle four.’”

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was almost 2:00 am when I awoke.
An infomercial was spewing smoke
About saving me time and money . . .
And dreams replacing reality.

.     “Yessir, yessir . . . get it now, get it here.
.     From those folks who brought you
.     ‘The Pocket Baseball’ and ‘One-Pitch Wonder’,
.     And the ever-popular ‘One That Got Away’.”

Even as I arose and shook my head
And stumbled off to bed,
The sonorous voice behind me said:

“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

 



Holy Toledo, Cooperstown!

by the Village Elliott

For 2017 Ford Frick Award Winner, Bill King

Frick’s ghost wrote, “Time this man gets ring!”
Ruling made, Hall of Fame Voters sing,
“Enshrine ‘Stan’s Greatest Fan’,
Star belongs with ‘The Man.'”
Fans sing, “Holy Toledo, Bill King!”

 

Hall of Fame Names Bill King Ford Frick Award winner for excellence in broadcasting.

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