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Baseball Couplet

by Donald Hall

When the tall puffy
Figure wearing number
nine starts
late for the fly ball,
laboring forward
like a lame truckhorse
startled by a gartersnake,
–this old fellow
whose body we remember
as sleek and nervous as a filly’s–

and barely catches it
in his glove’s
tip, we rise and applaud weeping:
On a green field we observe the ruin
of even the bravest
body, as Odysseus
wept to glimpse
among the shades the shadow
of Achilles.

 

Donald Hall, who died on Sunday at age 89, was a writer, editor, literary critic and U.S. Poet Laureate in 2006.

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Casey At the Baton, or Pete Rosenkavalier

By Patrick McCaughey

Overture

Baseball and opera. Basses, runs, and what’s more —
They each need a pitch before there’s a score.

Act I

Why would anyone take an opera box? There
Are better ones at the stadium.
Instead of watch opera, I’d rather go hear
Brooklyn’s phone book read verbadium.

Act II

I know how to handle a one or two hoppera,
And that Sparky Lyle was a lights-out stoppera,
That Tampa Bay plays at the Tropera,
And that Yogi was a malapropera.
But I’m as far from getting opera
As Bangor is from Santa Bopera.

Intermezzo

The seventh inning stretch — baseball’s intermezzo.
How do I know? My scorecard sezzo.

Act III

The drama! The length! The Mets! And before
The weary trudge up the aisle, two more —
Be it Series or Nibelung they each have rings,
And neither one’s over ‘til the fat lady sings.

 

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The Only Way

by George Moriarty

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“Is there a way to stop the Sox,
And strew their pennant path with rocks?”
An alien rooter asked one day.

A White Sox rooter heard the quiz,
And promptly said, “You bet there is;
Jot this down as the only way:

Choke Eddie Collins til he’s dead. Shoot Happy Felsch right in the head.
Send Weaver on an ocean trip and have a U-boat sink the ship.
Feed Gandil pork chops, fat or lean, in which you hide some paris green.
Then tie that catcher, Pee Wee Schalk, upon the back of some wild hawk.
Get Risbert in an autor wreck, in which said auto breaks his neck.
For Faber, just invent some trick to make him eat some arsenic.
Put Cicotte on a fast train which speeds onward through an open switch.
Place Shano in an airship bound to dash his daylights to the ground.
Pierce Mister Joe’s heart with a knife, and jail Reb Russell for his life.
Take Pitcher Danforth, long and slim, and push a building onto him.
McMullin and the other men–cast them into a lion’s den.
And last of all, but hardly least, feed Gleason to some wildish beast.
This scheme,” the White Sox rooter said, “will lend some other team ahead.”

 

George Moriarty (1884-1964) played third base for 10 years, mostly with Detroit, and later worked as manager, newspaper columnist, poet and, for 22 years, as a major league umpire.

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3 Stooges and Connie Mack

By Hilary Barta

Look out for the bat, you poor schmuck!
Wear a mask, or get back, at least duck!
Stop the presses–it’s huge!
Connie Mack is a Stooge?
Put that in your hat! Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!

We are glad Mr. Mack wore a hat that day, so he could play catcher.