Browse all poems and songs in the 'Fans' Category


Childhood’s Soul Stirred

by the Village Elliott

For All Who’ve Thrown a Ball or Swung a Bat

I
Broomstick and a Pink Spaldeen
For All the Stoop-Ballers

While out this evening for a stroll,
Saw Whiffle Ball on Village Green.
It stirred the best of childhood’s soul
Like broomstick swung at pink Spaldeen. . .

II
Whiffle Ball Village Green Scene
For All the Wiffle-Ballers

Played tonight! Stinson Beach Village Green:
Game revived local Wiffle-Ball scene
On town’s basketball court,
I am pleased to report.
Hope once more Game becomes town’s routine.

 



RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
Knothole Gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleacher seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame! For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest in Peace, Ebbets Field.
Rest in Peace, Brooklyn Dodgers.

 



Old Timers’ Day (06/12/2016)

by Stephen Jones

It was Old Timers’ Day
At Yankee Stadium:
Familiar names played the field;
Yogi was remembered.
The banter in the booth
Was long on lore and tooth
And was like the game itself:
A scrapbook of past and present–
Because baseball never gets old.

 



They Lived Too Soon

by Anonymous

George Washington was President and honored in his day,
He was the father of the land and all things came his way;
He had a basketful of fun, a wagon load of fame—
But he never was a rooter at a base ball game.

Napoleon conquered half the world and had a crown of gold,
And in his time his cup was just as full as it could hold.
It looks from here as though he should have had his share of fun-
But her never strained his vocals when the home team won.

And also Julius Cesar, who had his share of sport,
He won his share of battles, and always held the fort.
He killed lost of people, regardless of the cost—
But he never booed the umpire when the home team lost.

And also Alexander, he turned most every trick,
And then shed tears because there were no more worlds to lick,
He climbed ‘way up the ladder, as high as people get—
But he never pawned his scepter to pay a baseball bet.

Published in the Chicago Record, 1896.

 



Memorial Day

by Stephen Jones

Memorial Day — the unofficial
Start to summer. For many,
The sandy ritual at the beach;
For others, a pause to remember.

For me? I collect thoughts too —
Randomly, like shagging flies —
And I finally put away
All the winter clothes.

And I may self-indulge —
A Rasputin of the fridge.
One thing is certain:
I always watch a game.

It may sound disrespectful,
To be so hedonistic, but
During the seventh inning stretch
“God Bless America” popped up

And I caught a thought —
It curved to where I sat:
I only get to do this because
Of what someone did for me.

 

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