Browse all poems and songs in the 'Broadcasters' Category


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.



The Cards on TV

by Alan P. Rudy

The Cards on TV,
Well, that’s as may be
But it’ll all go roxten
If they bring in Broxton.

The Cards on TV,
Well, that’s as may be.
We got Cecil for lefties,
But he leaves me berefties.

The Cards on TV,
Well, that’s as may be.
Aledmys can really hit,
But Diaz, sadly, fields like . . .

The Cards on TV,
Well, that’s as may be.
Hope springs eternal,
Most outcomes . . . infernal.

The Cards on TV . . .
Dude, stop! They win more when we don’t watch!

 



Adios, Jimmy

by the Village Elliott

For Jimmy Piersall (11/14/1929 – 6/4/2017)

Jimmy Piersall today passed away
Childhood hero had own style of play
My first glove bore his name
Tried to play game the same
With his glove, learned to field Jimmy’s way.

Jimmy played with unique sense of pride,
Until by his pride Piersall was fried.
After treated with shocks
Rapped with Harry, White Sox,
Only sane man on air, certified.

 



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?

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.