Browse all poems and songs in the 'Fans' Category

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 bleachers 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.


One Fine Day

by the Village Elliott

For Hank Gowdy

Gee Golly, Boy Howdy,
I just met Hank Gowdy,
Great War hero and World Series star,
Was a Miracle Brave,
Till he joined in first wave,
First pro swap unis, march off to war.
In left field today sit,
With my dad and my mitt,
Can’t imagine a day could be finer,
Till I heard the bat crack,
Heard crowd roar, “Back . . . back . . . back . . .”
I caught home run hit by Ralph Kiner.

I was barely a teen,
Caught betwixt and between,
But grew up to accumulate stuff.
Still my Great Legacy:
Photo: Hank, Bro and me,
One fine day below old Coogan’s Bluff.


The VE explains:  “In July, Dick Volk showed me a photo of himself as a young teenager. It was taken at the Polo Grounds in 1948, and included his older brother, posing with 53-year-old New York Giants coach Hank Gowdy. It was another era. In fact, it is exactly 100 years since Hank led the Boston Braves upset sweep of Connie Mack’s ‘White Elephants’, three years before he became the first Major Leaguer to enlist for WWI. My friend met Hank three years after Hank mustered out a second time, having re-upped as an Army physical education instructor for the duration.”

If We Lose the Playoff Game: An Angry Poem

by Hart Seely

If we lose the playoff game…
You bring the gas, I’ll bring the flame.
You bring the force, I’ll bring the deadly,
And we won’t see any more flubs from Headley.

If we lose the playoff game…
They won’t put Cashman in the Hall of Fame.
Sports Illustrated won’t be right behind him.
They’ll look everywhere, but they won’t find him.

If we lose the playoff game…
Joe Girardi better change his name
And vow to never lose morale,
While hiding out there in the bunker with Hal.


Reprinted from the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is … caught.

“Hope” is the thing with pennants

by Paul Kocak

With apologies to Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with pennants –
That perches on the heart –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – till done –

And sweetest – in the Yard – is heard –
And sore must be the arm –
The tiny splash of one ball’s arc
Scribing wingèd Victory –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the foggiest Cove –
That – never – in Eternity,
Did three-ringed Giants swoon – nor fold.


Paul Kocak is the author of Baseball’s Starry Night: Reliving Major League Baseball’s 2011 Wild Card Night of Shock and Awe, which Doris Kearns Goodwin called “a magical book about a magical night.” He followed this with World Serious: One San Francisco Giants Fan’s 2012 Pilgrimage. He is completing a memoir on his life as a Giants fan.


The Muscular Maccabean

by the Village Elliott

For Hank Greenberg and Edgar Guest*
On Rosh Hashanah, 1st of Tishrei, 5776**

“Landsman” Hank played ball Jew’s New Year’s Day,
Won game with two home runs ’cause  he’d play.
Ten days on, Hank for sure
Wouldn’t play on Yom Kippur.***
Tigers lost, but won flag anyway.


*Came Yom Kippur: A Hank Greenberg Poem
10th of Tishrei, 5695
by Edgar Guest
Published in Detroit Free Press, 1934

The Irish didn’t like it when they heard of Greenberg’s fame
For they thought a good first baseman should possess an Irish name;
And the Murphys and Mulrooneys said they never dreamed they’d see
A Jewish boy from Bronxville out where Casey used to be.
In the early days of April not a Dugan tipped his hat
Or prayed to see a “double” when Hank Greenberg came to bat.
In July the Irish wondered where he’d ever learned to play.
“He makes me think of Casey!” Old Man Murphy dared to say;
And with fifty-seven doubles and a score of homers made
The respect they had for Greenberg was being openly displayed.
But upon the Jewish New Year when Hank Greenberg came to bat
And made two home runs off pitcher Rhodes—they cheered like mad for that.
Came Yom Kippur — holy fast day worldwide over to the Jew —
And Hank Greenberg to his teaching and the old tradition true
Spent the day among his people and he didn’t come to play.
Said Murphy to Mulrooney, “We shall lose the game today!
We shall miss him on the infield and shall miss him at the bat
But he’s true to his religion—and I honor him for that!”

** Rosh Hashanah: lit., head of the year

***Yom Kippur: Day of Atonement (Holiest of Holy Days 10 days after Rosh Hashanah)


AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.