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Chicago Baseball A to Z (Part 1)

By Jim Siergey and James Finn Garner

A is for Anderson
A youthful Sox great
He loves flipping bats
Which other teams hate.

B is for Beer
The beverage of summer
Also for Bryant,
Bote and Bummer.

C is for Colomé
Sox closer with flair.
His Cub counterpart’s Kimbrel
With his elbow in air.

D is for Dylan
The White Sox have two.
Will Covey and Cease
Give visitors the “Homesick Blues”?

E is for Epstein
Who helped lift the curse.
He eyeballs the players
As well as the purse.

F is for Fans
(Don’t get caught in between ’em)
More passionate diehards?
You ain’t never seen ’em!

G is for Grandpa
The new boss in town.
Show some hustle out there
And stay off of his lawn!

H is for Harry
“Hey, lemme hear ya!”
Were he still around,
Sure bet he would beer ya.

 

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Wait ‘Til This Year

by Donald G. Evans

No fans in the Wrigley stands,
Okay, let’s start there.
The Comcast deal didn’t land,
That hardly seems fair.

Hottovy got the virus,
Something there to learn.
A pandemic has no bias,
Next could be your turn.

We knew it would happen,
Jose went down: swish!
Not from a cough or a sneeze,
Just cleaning a dish.

Looking at the South Bend Fort,
Ross said, “Next Man Up!”
Strumpf, Hill, Hughes, Palma, King, Mort…
“Who are these mere pups?”

Testing is slow and spotty,
You do have to wait.
Maybe this is all just me,
None of this seems great.

Forget about high-fiving,
Please, please do not spit.
This disease, it is thriving,
Could be in your mitt.

When married with some children,
You sure do miss home.
When young and rich and single,
You just want to roam.

Opening Day: Yes!
We’ve all waited long enough.
Just take your best guess.
About the rest of this stuff.

Red Line rides, no sir!
Long lines, no need to worry.
Good-bye ballpark franks,
Swap in take-out curry.

Seems like only yesterday,
A buck got you in.
Even little ones could pay,
Small price for a win.

I’ve been sheltering months now,
On my couch do I lie.
Some baseball–Hey, Holy Cow!
Just try not to die.

Donald G. Evans is the founding executive director of the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame.

 

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Al Kaline, RIP

By James Finn Garner

A perfect swing
A perfect throw
A perfect eye
A perfect show
A perfect ‘mate
A perfect Joe
A perfect gentleman
Mr. Tiger, arigato.

 

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Hope, Diamond

by James Finn Garner

A hundred bucks for an obstructed seat
Cold in the shadow, then blistering heat
The pushy stat-head who needs a shower
Nine inning games that last six hours
Fans in my row with tiny bladders
The $30 million .240 batter
Ear-blistering rock soundtrack
Fourteen dollar Cracker Jacks
Security lines that go on for days
Video reviews, endless delays
Wasted bankers on company plastic
Knucklehead experts so bombastic
Lazy players, greedy owners
Chatterboxes, needy loners
Pina colada spilled down my back–

Goddamnit, I want baseball back!