One hundred and four, nothing yet
One hundred and four, not a threat
All those years, win or lose
Always cheers, never boos
One hundred and four of regret

Hilary Barta was recently interviewed by the Chicago Tribune about the upcoming Roy Lichtenstein exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago.  They didn’t mention his Cub fandom, but it’s obviously there between the lines.

Yesterday we played, we played baseball
the pitcher pitched and I whacked the ball
it flew over Maine
and a Japanese train
it flew over a polar ice cap
it was seen by some English chaps
some soldiers saw it in Afghanistan
and as it flew it learned Uzbekistan
it flew over the Great Barrier Reef
in North Dakota it sampled some beef
but just as it landed in Moscow
the umpire called it  foul

Owen P. is a fifth-grade student in Chicago.

Rule #1
Back before Harry Caray, Santo, and Hughes
The bleachers held young actors paying their dues.
But Belushi and Murray knew Rule Number 1:
Remember, always, there’s a game going on.

Rule #2
Buy a scorecard, keep score, and follow along.
If you don’t know how, there’s an app on your phone.
Sit your butt down when you hear, “Down in front!”
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #3
Don’t go to get nachos when a runner’s on base.
Ignore your full bladder, that babe you might chase.
Just get up between innings or when a pitcher is gone.
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #4
Don’t sit back of home plate and gab on your phone.
When you show up on TV, you’ll look like a clown.
Get back to your scorecard; you might miss a home run.
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #5
The game lasts nine innings, don’t have any doubt.
Don’t stand for the pitcher until the last out.
Standing adds drama that doesn’t belong,
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #6
Remember that baseball’s the reason you came,
There’re plenty of sports bars for after the game.
No one cares how much cash you paid your salon,
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

The wife-and-husband team of Becky Binks and Cary Donham intrepidly support the Cubs from the far South Side enclave of Beverly.

Baseball’s Hall of Fame hails a time-honored game,
That cannot be settled by clock.
Inning after inning, no team is winning,
I’d opt not to buy tickets or stock.

If one is so clever, a game can last forever,
A tie score all knotted at zip.
Ruth started the line-up, need new hitters to sign up,
Like Bonds who can make a round trip.

But we may never survive to see a line drive,
For me the game just drives me bonkers.
Be it Brooklyn or Yanks, if you ask me, “No thanks!”
The Bronx just bombed out, on to Yonkers!

This time-worn tradition should be sent to perdition,
The outcome has outlasted my strength.
Would there be sudden death? Please don’t hold your breath,
This game of ages is just so by its length!

As the management turns a new leaf
The old fans are relearning their grief
As the ace, Dempster’s strong,
But then brace for what’s wrong,
And make plans to get burned in relief.

Hilary Barta is the chief cook and bottle-washer at LimerWrecks.

ARIZONA DIAMONDBACKS
Over(bay) the Miles,
Young men climb Upton a Hill—
This poet’s a Putz

COLORADO ROCKIES
The prime of one’s life
Ends around 40 for all
But Jamie Moyer

LOS ANGELES DODGERS
It’s a Magic time!
Millionaires swap property
And the fans go wild

SAN DIEGO PADRES
Highly paid jocks in
Military uniforms?
A bullshit salute

SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS
The Posey’s a bloom
That needs strong roots around it
Not these flimsy sticks

“Cheering the Beard” is such a thorny notion
It nearly got Ozzie chucked in the ocean.

Instead he crash-landed in water so hot
‘T’would turn a refugee raft ‘to a teapot.

Down in Miami, fidelity to Fidel
Earns one the stature of Eddie Gaedel.

So Guillen, he of cojones inflated,
Went way overboard and got Castro-ated!*

(* But while landing Hernandezes at the beach
Let’s try not to trample all over free speech.)

Michael X. Ferraro is a TV writer/producer and author of Numbelievable: The Dramatic Stories Behind the Most Memorable Numbers in Sports History and Tased & Amused: The Shocking Poetic Recap of the 2010 Baseball Season.

In the beginning there was silence
Complete and deafening
Enough for a quiet cliché about a pin dropping
The kind of silence only a home crowd can achieve
A silent empty air
created by dashed anticipations and disappointments too numerous

There was nothing in the stillness
to suggest an end to the resolve to wait another day
There was nothing but more of the same
Futility ruled as the first two men trudged from dugout to on-deck to plate

The first was out without a twitch of recognition
Watching as three straight zipped past
The second flailed at three more
But the stitched leather need not fear
as it found safe haven in the mitt

Next up

Sensing the final indignity and the end of the day’s misery
one lone fan began to clap
Slowly, what was left of the crowd began to laugh and clap along
A rhythm built that had been missing throughout
Even the Ump smiled
understanding the need

No one wants to be the last out but someone must
No one can step into the box with doubtful thoughts and survive
The confrontation at hand
although shared by many on and off the field
is in a sense one-on-one
And one will fail

It seemed as though the man on the mound was in control
Had a sure thing in the bag
and would soon have a refreshing shower and steak dinner
It seemed the man at bat was behind in the count before the first pitch

But things happen
Things happen in a subtle way and seem not to matter
One gets away and just nips the uniform

Man on first

The next with a powerful swing
manages to barely get bat on ball
and owes lady luck a big kiss for his “swinging bunt”

Men on first and second

Shake it off
No harm done
Get the next guy and go home
Quickly there are two strikes

The diehards who continued whooping
are standing and stomping
sensing the possibility of the unreal
Eliminate the impossible and the unbelievable can be true

The next pitch gets in his kitchen
The bat is shattered – splintered
Shards flying every which way
as the ball brazenly bloops just out of reach
from the outstretched infielder
The hard charging outfielder

Bases loaded

Players live for this moment
Down by three
Bottom of the ninth
Two outs
Winning run at the plate
A childhood dream of Grand proportions

A visit to the mound just for cool and concentration
It’s not like anything has been hit hard
or his stuff has disappeared
Just a few flukes
He’s the ace

The right man is up for the job
An RBI machine when it counts
Power to all fields

He knows what to look for and gets it
Smooth, quick, bat speed a blur
The “Crack” says it all

As the ball reaches the fences
the man in right times his leap
and the Umpire gets in position

The stands are on their feet
as time stands still
in anticipation of a moment to remember

A glove leans over and snatches
the ball in flight
The defender comes up empty
On and off the field
an eruption of pent up emotion

A game of beauty can leave
both victor and vanquished
stunned

Splendor on the grass?
Today’s faithful will never know

Fan interference
Batter out
Game over

In the Big Inning there was

[SILENCE] 

According to family legend, Art Gomez was conceived in a Chicago hotel room when his father had a tryout with the Cubs. A devoted Mariners fan, Art reads his poems in the Seattle area as a member of PoetsWest and Seattle Free Lances. His poems have appeared in Spindrift, Minotaur Press, Poetic Matrix, Seattle Muse, and Poets Against War, and on KSER 90.7 FM (Independent Public Radio).

Anytime baseball happens
one’s mind is relieved

like dreams sometimes relaxed

by hardball & glove
by bat & smack

Like the time-honored herd made of turtle,
The White Sox see a race full of hurdle.
Sure, they’ve won by one run,
But rebuilding’s no fun,
Chelonian, they are, for certle.