Browse all poems and songs in the 'Broadcasters' Category


The Shakespearean Baseball Game

by Wayne and Shuster

Happy 453rd birthday, Willie Bard!

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Ballad of a Cringe Man”

by Lou Carlozo

You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “The Tribe’s Luck Ain’t A-Changin'”

by Lou Carlozo

O come all ye Clevelanders, where e’er ye may roam
And admit that another World Series was blown
Your underwear’s soiled, your soaked to the bone
And Francona’s impatiently pacing
So you better start booing, hell you’re not number one,
And the Tribe’s luck ain’t a-changin’

Oh senators, congressmen, please hear the call:
Tell Chapman to grow up, and grow him some balls!
An inning’s relief and he can’t pitch at all
He should thank God for Game 7 rainin’
It’s too bad that he’s gone, his fastball and all,
But the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’

The curse it is gone, the Goat it is cast
(And it’s about time, ‘cuz that damn thing had gas)
While annoying Joe Buck waits for one final chance
To sing Clayton Kershaw’s sweet praises
Mow Vin Scully’s lawn, Joe, if you’re fit to do that
And the Tribe’s luck, it ain’t a-changin’

 



News from Chicago’s Far (Very Far) Northside

by Hilary Barta

Santo screams himself hoarse (Volume Eleven)
Seems his team has just forced a Game Seven
Angel Brickhouse is merry
Getting pickled is Caray
Banks just beams from, of course, baseball heaven.

 



The Season, the Best Since Forty-Five

by Millie Bovich

You know Caray, up in Heaven, followed each and every game
Although without his booming voice, it hasn’t been the same.

But the coaches and the fans alike were giving all they had
And the Cubbie team reciprocated, winning games like mad.

Some games were rough and tumble, and some an easy nine.
Fans took the bitter with the sweet, no reason to malign.

They studied all opponents, not a game they chose to lose,
And the coaches had much input and advised with all their clues.

The loyal fans attended, Wrigley almost burst its seams
For the season, best in decades, for the season of their dreams.

While the schedule wore on daily from the first game to the last
And most the time we celebrated, watched the home team blast.

The “Ws” were piling up, and fans were quite amazed
With wins from Kyle and his bunch, Chicago woke up dazed.

And when the season ended with the stats all in the books,
Our Cubbies ended right on top, no more the dirty looks.

Now way above old Wrigley Field there flies the pennant flag.
We’ve reason now to hold heads high, we’ve reason now to brag.

And the cheering, oh the cheering, is reverberating now
From Chicago, Mrs. Murphy, and the famed O’Leary cow.

So Caray rests so peacefully, a smile upon his face.
At last his team, Chicago Cubs, has surely won the race.

Soon the Indians come a’calling, and there’s fervor in their eyes
We are ready, set for action – GO CUBS! GO BEAT THOSE GUYS!

 

While Millie Bovich is our senior Tigers correspondent, she also claims a loyalty to Chicago due to five years’ living in Riverside and Des Plaines, IL.

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.