Mr. Scoreboard

by James Finn Garner

the ledger of the sport that night
quiet and relentless
innings in other parks decided
three outs somehow made

if action here was lagging,
it was hopping somewhere else
and this wide network was tallied
with metal placards
slotted by men in shirtsleeves, sweating, smoking

Chesterfields and Old Golds
as advertised
and checking their watches
B-U-L-O-V-A

when the out-of-town games ended
east coast, then west coast,
the placards were put away
retiring like the faces of fans heading home
just as we would soon do
under the silent watchful eye of
Mr. Scoreboard

Sportsmen’s Park, St. Louis, July 20, 1951.

A Baseball Eulogy: Total Eclipse of the Game

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

(In appreciation of the April 8, 2024 solar eclipse and with apologies to Bonnie Tyler)

Baseball was my reliable Chicago sun:
Warm summer days, filled with run after run.

Basketball was my Windy City moon:
Cool winter nights, swishing nets into June.

My heart had space for Doubleday and Naismith’s games;
My heroes in Cooperstown and Springfield’s Halls of Fame.

But my steadfast true love
Began with bat, ball, and glove.

Once upon a time, Whitman waxed serious,
“The game of ball is glorious.”
The poet couldn’t imagine “base” falling apart.
There’s nothing I would lament, for
Nothing could eclipse my game of ball.

Then a madness occurred;
Began with Magic and Bird.

Ernie Banks’ around-the-bases smile,
Was displaced by MJ’s high-flying guile.

Today’s kids are in far too much of a hurry,
Thrilling to threes by sweet Steph Curry.

They know not the wonder of a triple play,
As rare as the moon getting in the sun’s way.

Once upon a time, there was light in our life,
But now there’s only love in the dark.
Is there nothing that can save us from
A total eclipse of the game?

 

Opening Weekend

by Stephen Jones

The Yankees swept the Astros
Thanks in part to Juan Soto
And his late-inning heroics.

I know, I know: one weekend
Doesn’t make a whole season,
But there are smiles in the Bronx.