Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
We salute a skipper named Whitey
Who plugged in Vince and Willie and Ozzie
He saw defense and speed
Were St. Louis’ need
‘Twas Whiteyball made Whitey quite mighty.
“I came here in last place and I leave here in last place. I left them right where I started.” RIP to the White Rat.
As all us plebs pay the tax man,
You owners need to face some facts, man.
In suites with well-heeled sponsors and friends,
You claim your team pays civic dividends
Then you say you need new parks resplendent?
We fans should claim you as a dependent.
Taxes and slush are your basic income,
We ask for returns and you play dumb.
When voters at last come to their senses,
You scream and whine and talk moving expenses.
Pigs at the trough, courting our elected hoes —
Whatever way it’s adjusted is gross.
I see you guys in the video room,
just looking at your swings,
reading all these stats.
At some point, you have to just say,
“F— all that s—”
and just go out there and hit.
All I hear is y’all talking about
launch angle
and tendences
and exit velocity.
F—ing exit velocity!?
Motherf—ing exit velocity?!
How about motherf—ing exit hits?!
“Can’t anyone here play this game?”
Casey asked his forces
Then saw that his team, the Mets
Had become the Metsamorphosis
Six legs are certainly faster
Than the measly two
Six hands perform much better
In keeping balls from getting through
But gripping bats and swinging
Proved to be quite hairy
As no bug could hit no better
Than big ol’ Marv Throneberry.
Catchers are a con,
With the masks that they don.
They move outside pitches in,
Making the umpire’s head spin.
Like a leathery snapping turtle,
Their fat gloves makes pitches fertile.
Fingers flash sneaky signs,
Keeping balls out of Wrigley’s vines.
But what catchers really hide,
Is that they have another side:
Their future after catching daily trouble,
May emerge as a post-playing days’ double.
Eyes darting, they see the whole field,
Imagining that someday they will wield
A baton like Connie, Gabby, Girardi, and Bochy,
And, of course, that wise backstop/leader named Yogi,
Who said, “It ain’t over till it’s over,”
Maybe meaning careers evolve forever.
Perhaps suggesting that a catcher is
To a big-league manager,
As a caterpillar eying the blue sky is
To an imperial monarch butterfly.
“It ain’t over till it’s over” is the last sentence of “Double Play,” Dr. Oza’s novel which will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press. Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University.