Browse all poems and songs in the 'History' Category


Casey at the Tweet

by Hart Seely

The Twitterverse was raging o’er the Mudville game that day.
Both sides were firing salvos with the hashtag “#MudWillSlay!”
For broadcast rights, a local station raised a kingly sum
From sponsors Mudville Bong & Vape and Captain Morgan Rum.

In truth, the show’s producer viewed the game with mounting dread:
It would face the season opener to Naked: Walking Dead.
Yet the station had one weapon to ensure a ratings spike,
For the whole town would be watching, what with Casey at the mic.

Though 20 years had vanished, since he swung and missed that day,
He remained a local sports show host, the king of play-by-play.
He owned the Hyundai dealership, made time for local youth,
And no one ever missed a pitch with Casey in the booth.

But when the game fell out of reach, with Mudville down by four,
Two dozen TVs switched to watch Survivor: Baltimore.
And as the innings slipped away, the producer grew distressed.
To keep a decent audience, he’d need Casey at his best.

Then Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball!
And when the dust had settled, in the bottom of the frame,
Casey shouted out his catchphrase, “We done gots ourselves a game!”

Across the town, great cries of joy rang out like shrieking birds.
Five hundred Mudville faithful knelt, awaiting Casey’s words.
Five hundred phones, in unison, gave off a cheerful bleat,
And the population contemplated Casey’s fervent tweet.

It said, “Mexican illegals cause our paychecks to be littler.
“The media’s full of commies, and the President is Hitler.”
As fans across the bleachers analyzed what Casey wrote,
The show’s producer closed his eyes and loudly cleared his throat.

“Not good,” he grumbled angrily; he didn’t want to preach.
For Casey raised a scribbled note; it said, “It’s called free speech.”
“Strike one,” the show’s producer said, not one to fan a flame.
“We need to scrap the politics and focus on the game.”

But as the pitcher raised his mitt, and as the orb was thrown,
Casey’s very tiny fingers stroked the keypad of his phone.
He typed some words, deleted them, then typed them in again,
Tweeting, “Now they want girls’ restrooms to be filled by creepy men.

“The Muslims are upon us! It’s no wonder folks are mad!
“The President’s a moron! No one’s mentioning this! Sad.”
And as his harsh opinions hit the Internet anew,
The show’s producer hung his head. “Not good,” he said. “Strike two.”

Now Casey shrugged and gave a wince, as if he felt some pain.
And everyone was certain he would not hold forth again.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he brings high heat.
And now the landscape shivers from the tone of Casey tweet . . .

O, somewhere on the Internet, ex-jocks can still condemn
Anyone who does not look, or think, or talk, or pray like them.
But elsewhere fans can watch and cheer, no politics to bear,
And there is less mud in Mudville: mighty Casey’s off the air.

 

Hart Seely, the Bard of Lake DeRuyter, runs the indispensable Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught, where this poem first appeared.



Summer Cold

by Hilary Barta

Once so hot they could jump in the Lake,
Cubs looked shot as they slumped toward the break.
While Joe Maddon stays placid
We old fans drop antacid
‘Cause we’ve had all the lumps we can take.

 



Childhood’s Soul Stirred

by the Village Elliott

For All Who’ve Thrown a Ball or Swung a Bat

I
Broomstick and a Pink Spaldeen
For All the Stoop-Ballers

While out this evening for a stroll,
Saw Whiffle Ball on Village Green.
It stirred the best of childhood’s soul
Like broomstick swung at pink Spaldeen. . .

II
Whiffle Ball Village Green Scene
For All the Wiffle-Ballers

Played tonight! Stinson Beach Village Green:
Game revived local Wiffle-Ball scene
On town’s basketball court,
I am pleased to report.
Hope once more Game becomes town’s routine.

 



All Hail Ichiro

by James Finn Garner

So many long years ago
Ichiro
Began spraying hits
And if it seems like it’s
Going to go on forever
(I mean, it never
Looks like he ages),
Remember the pages
Of record holders
Left to molder
When a young stud
Both lucky and good
Works to set a new mark
At the ball park.
In time a new hero
Will surpass Ichiro,
And the passage of time
Cruel and sublime
Will lose some of its sting
As we salute a new king.

 



Realigned Adjustment

by the Village Elliott

For the McCovey Cove Splash Hit at Pac Bell Park

Two years since last adjusting “Splash Sign”,
Brandon Belt smashed Splash Hit 69.
Since Belt hit 68,
Reckon it’s Brandon’s fate
To splash next one when stars realign.

Visitors have splashed 17 more.
Three foes hit three each, no one’s hit four.
Over half Jints’ number
Off Barry Bond’s lumber–
Quite impressive when smashed splash hits soar.

 

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.