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Stealing Signs, 1951

by Michael Ceraolo

Herman Franks

We stole signs from the Germans and the Japanese,
and it wasn’t wrong for us to do so
While baseball isn’t life or death,
winning instead of losing is part of our way of life,
so it wasn’t wrong to steal signs in ’51
When Leo suggested it,
and Hank Schenz volunteered his telescope,
I was happy to be the spy relaying the signs
And if that could always assure victory,
we would have won a pennant or two
doing it while I was managing San Francisco,
instead of finishing second four years in a row

Bobby Thomson

Because of the way I was raised,
I struggled for years to justify what we were doing
I finally realized that,
even if you knew what pitch was coming,
you still had to hit it squarely,
and I deserved credit for doing so

Ralph Branca

I was among those taunting the Giants
earlier in the season, so some might say
I got a deserved comeuppance
in giving up the homer to Bobby;
I don’t think so, because of the spy
Bobby got more credit than he deserved
and I got more blame that I deserved
We’ll be linked as long as baseball is played,
and I’m at peace with my role in the drama

 

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Spend It and They Will Come

By James Finn Garner

If rooting for the Yankees
Was like rooting for GM
Back when rabbit ears on TVs were a must

Then rooting for the Dodgers
And their pricey diamond gems
Prob’ly feels like rooting for Disney Plus.

 

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Rick Ferrell

by Michael Ceraolo

I hear some say
the wrong Ferrell is in the Hall of Fame
I think it’s a shame Wes isn’t in,
but I think I belong as well
Remember,
I was the catcher on the ’45 Senators
Sure, I led the league in passed balls that year,
but we had four knuckleballers in the starting rotation,
and that alone merits my inclusion

 

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Catching Mr. Crandall

by Joseph Simone

In memory of Del Crandall, catcher for the Boston and Milwaukee Braves (1930-2021)

A stocky kid from the Bronx
I was bent on being the next Yogi.
So, when given the chance to get
A signed Del Crandall mitt, I said,
Yes, please, and gladly crouched behind the plate.

Your perfect gauntlet gave me confidence,
Let me use my armor to block home,
Throw out runners and somehow guide pitchers.
I rooted for you, sir (except for the ’57 and ’58 Series).
Easy crossing, Mr. Crandall.  Hi to Yogi and Roy.

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Helen Callaghan

by Michael Ceraolo

Fathers playing catch with sons? Sure
But what about mothers playing catch with sons?
Or anybody playing catch with daughters?
Obviously, somebody played catch with us
or we wouldn’t have become ballplayers
And where well over a hundred fathers
have had sons who also became major-league ballplayers,
I am the only mother who had a son
who also became a major-league ballplayer
And since, as of today, there is no league
where women can play baseball,
I will, sadly, have that distinction
for the foreseeable future