The Hall of Fame’s honor and riches
Ron Santo deserved without pitches.
.      But denied for too long
.      Was the man’s well-earned song
By an old bunch of sons of bitches.

.

by Cary Donham

Ron’s a hero to folks diabetic
‘Cause on the field he was super-kinetic
.      Whether diving for balls
.      Or arguing calls
Or clicking his heels so aesthetic

Roy White, you did all right.
Jim Ray Hart, you played your part.
Willie Mays, those were the days!
Matty Alou, is it really true?

Duke Sims, you climbed on limbs.
Sparky Lyle, you made us smile.
Horace Clarke, you jumped the shark.
Matty Alou, we must bid adieu?

Harvey Kuenn, you made the scene.
Juan Marichal, you gave ‘em hell.
Steve Blass, let’s raise a glass!
Matty Alou, we’ll remember you.

Hart Seely’s new book, The Juju Rules: Or How to Win Ballgames From Your Couch, will be published by Houghton Mifflin in time for Opening Day 2012.  You can pre-order it from Amazon at this link.

Sale: Storied Franchise
By McCourt in divorce court
Call: 1-800-Bailout

New York, London, Paris, Munich
Everybody talk about, mmm….
Pop music, aye, and news and sport
But to Bardball blast, we must retort

From the bleachers, and godly seats
Loving testimonies – and testy tweets
Au contraire, in Europe there is but little
Interest – like our economy, entirely brittle

In our excitement, we do refrain
From all small talk of one Ferris Fain
Unknown to us, across the Golden Pond
In our view, his sport just a frond

Of the nascent game we called rounders
Those damn Yankees – cads and bounders!

I’ll never see his like again,
My favourite hitter, Ferris Fain.

In London, Amsterdam and Paris,
They talk of nothing else but Ferris.

He always managed to amaze,
This handsome batsman of the A’s.

In 2002, George Bowering was appointed the first Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada.  His newest book, The Diamond Alphabet, is now available from BookThug.

This World Series sure done went screwy
with champs being wild card St. Looey
.     Midwest thinks it’s grand
.     but Cubs fans sneer and
collectively catcall, “Ah, Phooey!”

The Rangers lay their popguns down
Nolan Ryan sports a frown
The Cardinals new life have found
When Mr. Freese comes to town

The Texas bullpen crashes down
Nelson Cruz fields like a clown
The seat of Mark Lowe’s pants turns brown
When Mr. Freese comes to town

Bud Selig puts away the crown
Ol’ Dallas? One more cowtown
We all get a Game 7 showdown
When Mr. Freese comes to town

Franchise disarray
Post-season fingers pointing
Rumor mill working

Franchise scrambling
Truth . . . Boston fog obscuring
Who did what . . . or not?

A manager leaves
Pitchers eat chicken drink beer
Ownership denies

What to remember?
Two championships . . . or collapse?
Or “What’s next at bat”?

Dearest Mary,

Mine eyes have seen the stresses
of the team far back in June;
of a long goatee brought in to save
but failing far too soon.

Four score and one game makes a half,
and both sides of the all-star break
our men did try their best, yet
good progress they could not make.

Out went McClellan; in came Grant
to help us win the day,
while Sherman (twenty-nine) burned the South
and turned the tide our way.

And now, my dear, I’ve decided that
to bring Cardinal nation together I’ve got
to give command of the ball, at the very end,
to the able Ulysses S. Motte.

Prayerfully yours,

Abe

It’s been a good year,
And we still have beer.
Prince may be gone,
But our buzz is still on.