Browse all poems and songs in the 'Management' Category

RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
knothole gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleachers seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet-swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame!  For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest In Peace Ebbets Field.
Rest In Peace Brooklyn Dodgers.


If We Lose the Playoff Game: An Angry Poem

by Hart Seely

If we lose the playoff game…
You bring the gas, I’ll bring the flame.
You bring the force, I’ll bring the deadly,
And we won’t see any more flubs from Headley.

If we lose the playoff game…
They won’t put Cashman in the Hall of Fame.
Sports Illustrated won’t be right behind him.
They’ll look everywhere, but they won’t find him.

If we lose the playoff game…
Joe Girardi better change his name
And vow to never lose morale,
While hiding out there in the bunker with Hal.


Reprinted from the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is … caught.

Danks For Nothin’

By Stuart Shea

Don’t mean nothin’ how much he stanks–
Ventura’s gonna keep on using John Danks.
Don’t even matter how much he tanks,
Or  politely mutters “Please” and “Thanks.”

Far be it from me to pull any ranks,
Or attack the clubhouse with guns and shanks,
Or call the sports talk shows pullin’ pranks,
But they’ve gotta have somebody better than Danks.


High Heat

by William Tecku

Takes more than hope
to hit any high hard one
with mustard on it.
Dickinson knew that!
Higginson, the player’s first
and last coach said that.
Still, this Hall of Famer, before
blasting “Hope” into the books,
was un-coachable
in one hitting situation.

From the minors, Dickinson,
always dying to homer
in ninth inning tie games,
swung from the shoelaces
at high hard one after high hard one
that blew out of blue afternoons
. . . bright sunlight bearing down
behind each bullet of bleached white, stretched, balled up cowhide balled up and tossed away hard like a lousy first draft page
. . . small as twilight’s first
or dawn’s last star . . .
singular, nondescript as a dove
with rolling red stitches for wings,
a sphere sprinting in spikes of air,
rotating into wide open eyes,
shouting down a thirsty throat,
or avalanching sideways
on top of the batter,
just a pitch, but, in-
as much a blur as love
or any other heater
only heroes connect with
yet seldom homer.

The fundamental physics
of such thrown objects
make it extremely unlikely
that even the best players
at any level can ever catch up
to these fastballs that pitchers
hurl in some full counts
to sucker batters
into chasing such stuff
blazed shoulder high
or a feather above
the strike zone.

Yeah, when the game is
on the line, and you’re
going for the fences,
hope is hardly enough to swing,
even if you are swinging
Dickinson coffin wood.


William Tecku is a Witter Bynner Foundation for Poetry grant recipient, a six-time Arizona English Teachers Association “Teachers As Writers” award winner, a Lake Superior Writers Series award winner, and twice received the Mesa Public Schools Staff Writing Award. It’s Only a Dry Heat is his most recent collection of poetry and fiction. For more of his writing, visit his webpage, Road Reflections.


An Ode for Dave Dombrowski

by James Finn Garner

For all the effort
Restoring glory
The October result’s
The entire story

A franchise reborn
Butts in the seats
Traffic downtown
Pennant repeats

Strong arms and bats–
Some for the ages!–
Might end up mere stats
On old dusty pages

Without a ring
You’re as good as dead
When the Pizza King
Shouts, “Off with his head!”


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