by Millie Bovich
If you walk around the ballfield in the darkness of the night
If you let your mind just wander, love of baseball comes to light.
For the ballpark is enchanted and its magic doesn’t cease
Sights and smells and sounds surround it, though it seems at last at peace.
Love of baseball never leaves you, always there at your behest
And the players ever loyal, always there to do their best.
On the wall, the tigers crouching, prowling in protective guard
Watching well for no intrusion of their namesake’s sacred yard.
No flags waving to remind us of the teams that come to play
No lights shining, chasing darkness, making night as bright as day.
You’ll hear cheers and jeers diminished of the season’s games well played
Gone forever, not forgotten, though particulars may fade.
And the dust of sliding runners, safe despite the sizzled throw
In the air it seems to linger as the seasons come and go.
Yes, the losing is quite painful, and the “W” like gold
A no-hit game so special and a happy story told.
Smells of vendors’ foods have lingered as the wafting breeze will show
Stimulating well your senses, scents you miss and love and know.
And the scoreboard shows no numbers, no statistics grace its face
Stats invisible and hidden till next season’s welcome race.
In your eyes the park is empty all the seats in silence wait
For the fans again rejoicing, for the opening of the gate!
Millie Bovich may be the oldest fan and regular contributor to Bardball. “I had the pleasure of meeting All-Star Johnny Pesky when he visited the Detroit office of the FBI where I worked,” she writes, “and met and married a special agent from New York and made a Tigers fan out of him!”
by R.J. Lesch
The books must balance, so accountants say.
For every credit on the books, we must
Record a debit. Bills come in; we pay
Them off and write it down. In baseball, just
The same is true. A hit is chalked up to
The hitter and the pitcher both. A game
Won by my team must be a loss for you.
If we give credit, so we must give blame.
For every Thomson, Branca there must be.
For Mazeroski, Terry. Wilson, Buck.
Gordon and Familia, recently.
Then Hosmer, Duda. Perez, Matz. Tough luck.
The calculus of baseball can be cold,
But books must balance, once the tale is told.
by the Village Elliott
“What good is good pitching
If defense is porous?”
Reprise of the bitching
Amazin’ Mets Chorus.
Mets team defense a drag?
Another costly error?
Down-daubered Roger Craig
Lost 20 both years there.
This Series played a fright
No way the Mets survive
From Cespedes to Wright,
First inning through Game Five.
I tip my cap to Royals
Returning to the dance
The Instant Karmic spoils
They seized on second chance.
When Cespedes misplays
First ball, first run Mets yield–
Say, hey, ain’t Willie Mays,
Back playing center field.
Mad dash of Escobar
Redeemed slothful Gordon,
When Hosmer ties the score
Could sense the Royals had won.
Last year they lost to Jints
Panik starts a double.
Duda’s wild throw hints
It’s Mets who are in trouble.
The Royals deserve the crown
They won it fair and square,
Reversed their Dauber-down,
To earn the winners’ share.
by the Village Elliott
For sons Edinson, Bobo and Mort
Volquez started Royals’ World Series play
After learning Dad just passed away.
Just like Cards’ Cooper knew,
And Bengals’ Bobo, too,
Back in forties; each team won that day.
The Royals’ Edinson Volquez threw the first pitch of the 2015 Series yesterday, having learned on the way to the park that his father had died earlier that day. He pitched six innings with no decision, though his team won in the 14th.
In the 1940 World Series, Detroit Tiger Bobo Newsom shut out the Reds in Game 1 with his father in attendance. After the game, his father died. He dedicated his victorious Game Five start to his dad. Asked to also win Game Seven for his Old Man, he replied, “I think I’ll win this one for Old Bobo,” but lost 2-1.
Three years later, the Cardinals’ Mort Cooper learned his father died a few hours before his Game Two start against the Yankees. Pitching to his brother Walker, he won the Cards’ only game in the 1943 World Series.
by Debbie McLeod
O Mariners! I am about
To lose all hope in you.
Longest active post-season drought?
It makes me feel so blue.
But — my heart took a journey
Up to heaven with Ernie,
And my Cubs dreams may finally come true!