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The Last Link

by Stephen Jones

It was fall, 1945.  The nightmare,
World War II, had ended.  Now
The world, relieved of pain, exulted
And kissed in Times Square.

But amid relief and ticker-tape,
In Chicago no one knew
That this was just the beginning
Of the Cubbies’ enduring drought.

These words aren’t meant to drag up
A goat’s curse or muddy recollections
Of the “World’s Worst Series”
(Between the Tigers and the Cubs).

No.  It’s 2014, and Memorial Day reminds:
Memories and lives are fading.
The ranks of the best generation
Are getting thinner each and every day.

Closer to home, in dugout memory
Of Wrigley Field, only one link remains:
Lennie Merullo, 97, is the only tie
To the Cubs’ last World Series, of 1945.

Maybe the ’45 Series,
To quote author Warren Brown,
Was truly the “worst” that ever was.
But then, many players were in service

And what is necessary is to recall
That a generation did play ball,
And then went to war
And gave themselves for us all.

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The Good Old Days

by Dick Flavin

Whenever I need a good cry
I stop and think
Of when the Sox were on the rocks
And how they’d stink
I’d take some glee from misery
I confess
And what is worse, I miss the curse
And the stress

I see Billy Buckner bending
And all our hopes are ending.
The ball is rolling through
His legs before our gaze.
And that horrible truth
When we learned they sold Ruth
Those were the good old days.

I see Bucky Dent of all guys
The weakest of the small guys
That cheesy little homer
Floating through the haze.
And my heart is at risk
They forgot to sign Fisk
Those were the good old days.

I know it’s not pretty to wallow in pity
There’s nothing of value one can gain.
Then all of a sudden I see Don Buddin
And again I’m awash in wondrous pain
(Is everybody crying?)

I see Grady Little snoring
While Yankee runs are scoring
Pedro’s out of gas
But in the game he stays
And there’s Slaughter’s mad dash
Another late season crash
Those were the good old days

Oh I’d complain and I’d beef
But I miss the grief
Of those good old days.

Boston broadcaster Dick Flavin is considered the Poet Laureate of the Great Fenway Park Writers Series.

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Dizzy Gunga Dean

by Grantland Rice

You may talk of throwing arms that come up from Texas farms,
With a hop on the fast one that is smoking;
But when it comes to pitching that will keep the batter twitching
I can slip you in a name that’s all past joking;
For in old St. Louis town, where they called him once a clown,
There’s a tall and gangling figure on the scene,
And of all that Red Bird crew, there’s one bloke that pulls ‘em through,
Just a fellow by the name of Gunga Dean.

It is Dean – Dean – Dean –
You human coil of lasso – Dizzy Dean!
If it wasn’t for old Dizzy
They’d be worse than fizzy-wizzy,
Come on and grab another – Gunga Dean.

He told ‘em what he’d do, and they labeled him a screw,
Just a blasted mug who took it out in boasting;
And one day they sent him back to the cattle and the shack,
With a fair amount of panning and of toasting;
But the tall and gangling gawk, with a fast ball like a hawk,
Keeps them standing on their heads along the green—
Brings back color to the game with a flash of crimson flame,
So I’m slipping it along to Gunga Dean—

Yes – it’s Dean – Dean – Dean –
He’s a beggar with a bullet through your spleen.
Though at times some bat has flayed you,
By the Texas sun that made you,
You’re a better man than bats are, Dizzy Dean!

 

Published in the New York Sun, July 20, 1934, in the middle of the remarkable year of the Gashouse Gang, under the headline “Dizzy Gunga Dean (If Mr. Kipling Doesn’t Mind)”

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Happy 100, From a New Yorker

by Stephen Jones

Today is Wrigley Field’s anniversary.
One hundred years of longevity.

In New York, where short-term memory
Is “What have you done for me lately,”
It often means tearing down history
For the sake of the quick monetary.

As someone prescient once said
When the wrecking ball was poised
To bring down Ebbets Field stature,
“When it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

All this reflection just to say:
To Wrigley Field . . . Happy Birthday.