Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
By Stuart Shea
Rocks usually roll downhill.
These Rockies aren’t just landfill.
Left for dead in early May,
They’re in the playoff hunt today.
Playing halfway up the sky,
The Rockies feel a mile high.
The Cards may be their October foe,
Which ought to make a lovely show.
They’ll face a guy they used to pay–
That hitting star, Matt Holliday.
With Denver smog vs. St. Louis heat,
The Coors and Bud should flow quite sweet.
.
Posted 9/22/2009
by Todd Herges
Harry Caray, a cup ‘o Bud and thou:
A day-game audience tuned to Channel 9.
With Stone up in the booth to keep it sane,
Up to the plate steps Galarraga now.
The bums in left all crowd around The Man,
Girls topped in bikinis fight to kiss his cheek.
Harry would like to do this every week
But risks abound: beer vendors in the stands.
(He can’t quite hold it like he did in youth.)
Late in the game, while drinking his last pitcher –
Though bleacher visits each time thrill the crowd –
Steve must correct his mis-call from the booth:
“Um, Harry, that was thrown from the catcher.
The Big Cat, Galarraga, just struck out.”
.
Posted 6/15/2009
by Todd Herges
Bright dawn blue sky
Cubbies play at 1:05.
Dad, Mom, sons, daughter
Head like lambs unto the slaughter..
Ride aboard the red line El,
Hope that Z will throw it well.
See the green, the grass, the board,
Hope Dad’s cash he will not hoard.
See the wall, the bricks, the ivy,
Hope that Z K’s Junior Spivey.
Smell the stale beer, puke, and links
D Lee’s sitting – Dad’s heart sinks.
But then Aramis hits a double,
Spoils the no-no, causes trouble.
Up in the booth a new guest sings
But not like Harry’s echoed rings.
One son for extra innings thanks
This day was one for Ernie Banks.
As Holly wraps it up so well,
The family knows the day’s been swell.
Then back aboard the loud red train
To the hotel – it looks like rain.
Glad it held off for these few hours,
Maybe thanks to higher powers,
Hack and Harry and Chance and Brown
Stand in the clouds and look straight down
Into the green grass lined by Waveland,
Sheffield, Addison – Chicago’s Graceland.
They held back rain, they hold back tears,
Been over a goddamn hundred years.
.
Posted 5/28/2009
by James Finn Garner
In honor of the 100th anniversary of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and the 85th and final year of Yankee Stadium.
Casey Kelly had quite the job,
Quite the envy of every slob.
This businessman was a slip’ry eel,
Cutting deals, greasing wheels.
He knew f*ck-all of the national game,
But of this he was not ashamed.
When he saw poor saps lined up at the park
Trying to buy tickets, he’d bark,
“Whore me out at the skybox!
My firm takes care of the tab.
Clients just flew in from Washington.
We need to get plastered to get the deal done.
Oh, we’ll write this off on our taxes,
Champagne, sirloin and fresh lox.
We might
EVEN
WATCH
SOME
Of the game
From our sweet skybox!”
Posted 10/23/08
by JHB
The legend lives on, from Hoyt Wilhelm on down,
Of the trick pitch they all call the knuckler.
The pitch, it is said, leaves the catchers for dead,
Diving wildly with no hope for succor.
A gentleman fine, wearing number 49,
Came to Boston by way of the Pirates.
He struck batters out but he made catchers shout
‘Cept for one who had gorged carbohydrates.
Mirabelli’s the pride of the Faithful who fly
Cross the nation to see foes confounded.
As good catchers go, he was bigger than most,
With a butt and a belly well rounded.
Concluding some time with the Giants to find
They had sold him right off to the Rangers,
But Hatteburg and Tek found their stats were a wreck
And Duquette was aware of the dangers.
The voice on the phone made a tattletale drone,
And for Dougie they demanded Duchscherer.
And every man knew, as the GM did, too,
‘Twas a swap that smelled lots like manure.
But the trade it was made, and Doug wasn’t afraid
When the pitches of Wakefield came floating,
But after the game with complete lack of shame,
Dougie pigged out until he was bloating.
When the clubhouse spread came, the old cook was ashamed,
Saying, “Dougie, it’s all I can feed ya.”
At seven P.M., an old floorboard caved in.
He said, “Dougie, it’s been good to know ya.”
The Sox got Josh Bard, but the job was too hard,
So they flew Dougie from San Diego.
With state troopers he came, just in time for the game,
Catching knuckleballs, looking like Play-Doh.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the years turn the muscles to blubber?
The Faithful all say he’d have played to this day
Were his belly not soft as foam rubber.
Come 2008, Kevin Cash looked so great
Rumors spread across all Red Sox Nation.
On the thirteenth of March, Tito spoke the words harsh,
“The right thing for the organization.”
‘Cause flabby flesh hangs, despite Series rings
When beer and not ice tea’s a passion.
If you chug Anchor Steams like a bush leaguer’s dreams,
Your waistline will be out of fashion
And farther below the belt, don’t you know,
Takes the fat that won’t fit in the belly,
And the muscle tone goes, as the old-timers know,
‘Til the wreck of the Doug Mirabelli.
In a musty beerhall in Kenmore they prayed
And from Back Bay to Rome and New Delhi
The church bells did chime, all of 28 times
For the number of Doug Mirabelli.
The legend lives on, from Hoyt Wilhelm on down,
Now to Timmay and Doug’s fame accruing.
Great catches and blocks while wearing Red Sox.
‘Twas his weight that became his undoing.