Browse all poems and songs in the 'Fans' Category


The Boy

By Stuart Shea

The boy
Held a passel of baseball cards
Dating from before his birth
(His time on earth
Not even a thought)
With joy

 



Casey at the Tweet

by Hart Seely

The Twitterverse was raging o’er the Mudville game that day.
Both sides were firing salvos with the hashtag “#MudWillSlay!”
For broadcast rights, a local station raised a kingly sum
From sponsors Mudville Bong & Vape and Captain Morgan Rum.

In truth, the show’s producer viewed the game with mounting dread:
It would face the season opener to Naked: Walking Dead.
Yet the station had one weapon to ensure a ratings spike,
For the whole town would be watching, what with Casey at the mic.

Though 20 years had vanished, since he swung and missed that day,
He remained a local sports show host, the king of play-by-play.
He owned the Hyundai dealership, made time for local youth,
And no one ever missed a pitch with Casey in the booth.

But when the game fell out of reach, with Mudville down by four,
Two dozen TVs switched to watch Survivor: Baltimore.
And as the innings slipped away, the producer grew distressed.
To keep a decent audience, he’d need Casey at his best.

Then Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball!
And when the dust had settled, in the bottom of the frame,
Casey shouted out his catchphrase, “We done gots ourselves a game!”

Across the town, great cries of joy rang out like shrieking birds.
Five hundred Mudville faithful knelt, awaiting Casey’s words.
Five hundred phones, in unison, gave off a cheerful bleat,
And the population contemplated Casey’s fervent tweet.

It said, “Mexican illegals cause our paychecks to be littler.
“The media’s full of commies, and the President is Hitler.”
As fans across the bleachers analyzed what Casey wrote,
The show’s producer closed his eyes and loudly cleared his throat.

“Not good,” he grumbled angrily; he didn’t want to preach.
For Casey raised a scribbled note; it said, “It’s called free speech.”
“Strike one,” the show’s producer said, not one to fan a flame.
“We need to scrap the politics and focus on the game.”

But as the pitcher raised his mitt, and as the orb was thrown,
Casey’s very tiny fingers stroked the keypad of his phone.
He typed some words, deleted them, then typed them in again,
Tweeting, “Now they want girls’ restrooms to be filled by creepy men.

“The Muslims are upon us! It’s no wonder folks are mad!
“The President’s a moron! No one’s mentioning this! Sad.”
And as his harsh opinions hit the Internet anew,
The show’s producer hung his head. “Not good,” he said. “Strike two.”

Now Casey shrugged and gave a wince, as if he felt some pain.
And everyone was certain he would not hold forth again.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he brings high heat.
And now the landscape shivers from the tone of Casey tweet . . .

O, somewhere on the Internet, ex-jocks can still condemn
Anyone who does not look, or think, or talk, or pray like them.
But elsewhere fans can watch and cheer, no politics to bear,
And there is less mud in Mudville: mighty Casey’s off the air.

 

Hart Seely, the Bard of Lake DeRuyter, runs the indispensable Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught, where this poem first appeared.



Summer Cold

by Hilary Barta

Once so hot they could jump in the Lake,
Cubs looked shot as they slumped toward the break.
While Joe Maddon stays placid
We old fans drop antacid
‘Cause we’ve had all the lumps we can take.

 



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.

 

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.