Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
I said mostly nice things about him when we were alive,
but there’s no reason to pretend anymore
Ted was probably a better hitter,
but he couldn’t carry my jock as an all-around player;
no one could
And that made me a kind of American royalty:
everyone from Presidents on down
all wanted to associate with me
And I obliged them
as long as they paid for everything
or otherwise kissed my ass
If they stopped doing either, they were gone.
The news of the death
Of the great Lou Brock
Did not come
As a complete shock.
Late in his life
He suffered some ills,
This Cardinals legend
Who provided such thrills.
A man who made the game
So much fun,
Especially so in the way
He could run.
While he could steal bases,
Even better than that
Was how the lefty hitter
Could handle the bat.
Nothing but good words
For a Hall of Fame fella.
Smile, for his legacy
Includes the Brockabrella.
Recalling his glory days
When he ran fast
In World Series games
From the distant past.
The memories he gave us,
May they always last.
(Editor Error! First submitted Sept. 7, 2020. RIP Lou Brock. Apologies to the writer.)
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, (due to all the stadium lights)
In the forests of the night; (as that’s what turf grass looks like)
What immortal hand or eye, (like Kaline, Al, and Cobb, Ty)
Could frame they fearful symmetry? (but Fleer and Topps will always try)
In the distant deeps and skies of Palmer,
I’d play baseball to keep me calmer
and it was the same with my father,
he was fatherless, except on the diamond,
where coaches turned us into pitchers and linemen
and point guards and goalies in a town of mining,
where we’d forget about hematite and iron ore
in the bliss of 1945 and 1984,
and 1935 and 1968,
the years where all we did was celebrate,
like both the sky and our insides were bright as uranium
and in 2022, as a vet, they honored me at the stadium
and Detroit Tigers, you are always burning bright
in the forests of the night
and I held my hand to my heart that night
where I got to feel what being honored is like.
Thank you, Detroit Tigers.
Thank you.
Ron Riekki’s books include Blood/Not Blood Then the Gates (Middle West Press), My Ancestors are Reindeer Herders and I Am Melting in Extinction (Apprentice House Press), Posttraumatic (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle), and U.P. (Ghost Road Press). Right now, Riekki’s listening to Mychael Danna’s “It’s a Process” from the Moneyball film score.
It may be 2020,
but it feels like 1925.
Baseball is back
on the airwaves at night.
Nostalgia might get us through
if those radios pipe in
the Uecker’s, the Caray’s,
and the after-game jazzy blues.
Lay in the grass,
Throw the ball in the sky,
Listen to the play-by-play,
and hope this game won’t ever die.
(Editor Error! First submitted July 21, 2020. Apologies to the writer.)
I didn’t feud with sportswriters
I didn’t make obscene gestures at fans
I didn’t marry an actress or movie star
I didn’t play in New York
If I’m remembered at all,
it is for my unusual peek-a-boo batting stance
But in hitting, as with many other things,
it’s not how you start but how you finish,
and I finished in the hitting position
often enough to have as much success
as just about anyone else has ever had.