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Walter Johnson

by Michael Ceraolo

Sportswriters frequently praised my modesty,
and often added that I was scared to death
of hitting batters with a pitch lest I kill them,
thereby inferring I could have been more effective
Since I hit more batters than almost every pitcher ever,
it would seem I easily overcame my fear
And while I like to think I lived up to the modesty part,
being modest does not mean that you don’t recognize
your own worth both on and off the field
My pitching effectiveness speaks for itself;
there’s no reason for me to further tout it
And I was aware of what I was worth to the team financially:
though I couldn’t get anywhere near that amount
because Mr. Griffith and the other owners held all the cards,
I frequently held out to get what I could
And the one time the players held a few cards
with the existence of the Federal League alternative,
I signed a three-year contract with the Chifeds
for a $5500/year raise from what I was making,
along with a $6,000 signing bonus
(one of the other owners of the Senators
said I wasn’t worth what they were paying me,
much less merited a raise,
because I had only won 28 games the previous season)
I jumped back to Washington for a mere $500 raise,
along with Mr. Griffith promise that he would get me
a few thousand more for each of the next few seasons afterward
And Mr. Griffith lived up to his promises

Michael Ceraolo, a retired firefighter/paramedic, follows sports and writes poetry, mainly about the Cleveland area.

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Casey @ the Bat

by Mitchell Nathanson

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney whiffed again, the eighteenth K that night,
A sickly silence fell, for somehow baseball wasn’t right.

A straggling few got up and left, annoyed they even came;
And most who stayed were kind of drunk or wagered on the game.
Yet still to come was Casey, whom the fans had long extolled,
Though at the age of 31 the metrics deemed him old.

But first ahead of him was Flynn, a player much accursed;
His BABIP was atrocious, and his WAR was even worse.
Another guy came up as well, his name recalled by few;
Confusion sowed by double switches made in hour two.

But Flynn defied the numbers, making contact with the ball;
And sent it on a mighty arc — it caromed off the wall.
“The guy should be on third,” a salty graybeard spat and cursed,
As Flynn removed his batting gloves, a jogger still at first.

The other guy? A double by the waiver-wire addition;
(His former owner dumping salary without contrition);
And when the blaring music stopped, fans noticed what occurred,
Instead of crossing o’er the plate, young Flynn was still at third.

As Casey stepped into the box, the scoreboard roared “Make Noise!”;
The crowd most surely would’ve done, if not for all their toys.
About 5,000 hometown fans were checking in on Twitter;
So most remained oblivious to Casey as the hitter.

Ten thousand eyes were elsewhere as he scratched upon the dirt;
And Velcro-strapped his gloves and touched six places on his shirt.
And kissed his bat, then tapped the plate nine times or maybe 10;
Then from the box did Casey step, and start it all again.

The pitcher’s antics on the mound were also quite a show;
Whole seasons seemed to pass before he hinted at a throw.
Yet here it came, the cowhide sphere, arriving at great speed;
“Strike one,” the umpire firmly called. But PitchTrax disagreed. Continue reading “Casey @ the Bat”

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Bombing in the Bronx

by James Finn Garner

The Yankees teams of old–
Skilled, determined and bold–
Have been held in reverence
Which prohibits severance
And shapes the perception
Continues deception
Of how to field nine
Worthy of the big time.

No longer ball contact
But the size of the contract
No longer who’s hot
But the publicity got
No longer runs plating
But the latest Q-rating

Mickey and Yogi and Thurman
Use to celebrate in the bars.
Now the Bombers are as exciting
As “Dancing with the Stars.”