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Chicago Baseball A to Z (Part 1)

By Jim Siergey and James Finn Garner

A is for Anderson
A youthful Sox great
He loves flipping bats
Which other teams hate.

B is for Beer
The beverage of summer
Also for Bryant,
Bote and Bummer.

C is for Colomé
Sox closer with flair.
His Cub counterpart’s Kimbrel
With his elbow in air.

D is for Dylan
The White Sox have two.
Will Covey and Cease
Give visitors the “Homesick Blues”?

E is for Epstein
Who helped lift the curse.
He eyeballs the players
As well as the purse.

F is for Fans
(Don’t get caught in between ’em)
More passionate diehards?
You ain’t never seen ’em!

G is for Grandpa
The new boss in town.
Show some hustle out there
And stay off of his lawn!

H is for Harry
“Hey, lemme hear ya!”
Were he still around,
Sure bet he would beer ya.

 

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Clean-up Hitter

by Hilary Barta

No bats used by sluggers get notches
No gloves get adjusted, or crotches
No chaw will they squirt
No kicks in the dirt
Just “what might have beens” over scotches.

 

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Wait ‘Til This Year

by Donald G. Evans

No fans in the Wrigley stands,
Okay, let’s start there.
The Comcast deal didn’t land,
That hardly seems fair.

Hottovy got the virus,
Something there to learn.
A pandemic has no bias,
Next could be your turn.

We knew it would happen,
Jose went down: swish!
Not from a cough or a sneeze,
Just cleaning a dish.

Looking at the South Bend Fort,
Ross said, “Next Man Up!”
Strumpf, Hill, Hughes, Palma, King, Mort…
“Who are these mere pups?”

Testing is slow and spotty,
You do have to wait.
Maybe this is all just me,
None of this seems great.

Forget about high-fiving,
Please, please do not spit.
This disease, it is thriving,
Could be in your mitt.

When married with some children,
You sure do miss home.
When young and rich and single,
You just want to roam.

Opening Day: Yes!
We’ve all waited long enough.
Just take your best guess.
About the rest of this stuff.

Red Line rides, no sir!
Long lines, no need to worry.
Good-bye ballpark franks,
Swap in take-out curry.

Seems like only yesterday,
A buck got you in.
Even little ones could pay,
Small price for a win.

I’ve been sheltering months now,
On my couch do I lie.
Some baseball–Hey, Holy Cow!
Just try not to die.

Donald G. Evans is the founding executive director of the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame.

 

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MLB All-Fourth-of-July Team

1B   Champ Summers
2B   Keith Drumright
SS   Pat Rockett
3B   Dutch USsAt

LF   Bill Eagle
CF   Ethan Allen
RF   George Washington

C     Val Picinich

LHP    Ezra Lincoln, Danny Boone, Lafayette Currence
RHP    Jim Buchanan, Jim Bunting, Grover Cleveland Alexander

MGR    Sparklers Anderson

 

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None — Niente — Nada

by Millie Bovich

No bats, no balls, no umpire calls.
No runs, no hits, no Bud or Schlitz.
No fans, no stands, no bleacher tans.
No cheers, no jeers, no loser tears.

No drinks, no jinks, no fun, methinks.
No flies, no ties, no alibis.
No lights, no fights, no family nights.
No slides, no chides, no rule abides.

No shouts, no pouts, no fly ball outs.
No fuss, no muss, no catch the bus.
No time to stretch, no shoestring catch, no drink to fetch.
No batter up, no spill the cup, no boos erupt.

No hit to first, no quench my thirst, no rainstorm burst.
No dusty slide, no two collide, no place to hide.
No pitch too low, no triple blow, no place to go.
No organ sounds, no pitchers’ mounds, no homer rounds.

No op’ning day, no play-by-play, just “What the hey?”
No talks on tap, we sit and flap, who takes the rap?
No catcher cues, baseball we choose, fans sing the blues.
No season start, that isn’t smart, it breaks my heart!