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The Voice of God

by James Finn Garner

 As I sat in Section 660
Above the field where Gehrig trod,
I cursed the Yankees’ inept play
And muttered grudging praise to A-Rod.

Then a booming voice erupted,
Rattling beams and shaking sod.
Had sanity up and left me?
Or did I just hear the voice of God?

All eyes sought out the owner’s box
Where George S. kept his shrimp-stuffed bod.
What revelation would be uttered that
Had this crowd’s undies in a wad?

There stood Rocket Roger to declaim
(Feel free whenever to applaud)
That he’d weighed golf versus sleeping late,
And deigned to give the Yanks the nod.

“Hooray!” bellowed the drunken crowd,
Mouths agape like fresh-caught cod.
Yet I sat there with no response,
Unmoved, unsure, ungaped, unawed.

The feeling grew within me
With more than one fantod,
That this mercenary egomaniac
Wouldn’t rescue this year’s squad.

He’d win a game or three and show
His skills were not a fraud,
Then retire again, then change his mind,
A greedy, charmless, pumped-up clod.

Though many things, George S. is not
A cowardly tightwad,
But bills come due. Next year our costs
Will feel quite like a doctor’s prod.

 

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The Return of the Rocket

by Stu Shea

So Roger’s coming back at last.

Be still my heart that beats so fast!

Forgive me if I seem to joke

At Clemens’ latest blow of smoke.

 

The baseball world stands, mouth agape

As Rocket Man adjusts his cape.

Forgive me if this time I sit

And disregard this silly shit.

 

It’s not as if he’ll join my team,

So why should I, like others, scream,

“Roger’s back! Oh, praise the Lord!”

If my team his paycheck can’t afford?

 

“He wants a ring! He loves the game!”

The song remains fore’er the same.

“It’s not the money, not the perks,

It’s ’cause he loves his baseball, jerks!”

 

So Big George forks up mega-mills

For 15 visits to the hill.

(He doesn’t have to hang around

Those days when he’s not on the mound.)

 

His “veteran leadership” and arm

Calm Torre’s typical alarm.

But is it right to pay and pay

A guy who plays the game this way?

 

No matter what his season holds,

I’m waiting til next year unfolds,

And he retires, the spoiled dunce,

And keeps a promise just this once.

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Bonds of Irony

by Stu Shea

 

Whitey Ford and Willie Mays,

Lew Burdette and Elroy Face,

Bunning, Stargell, Wynn, and Rose,

Gaylord Perry, goodness knows!

Famous players, heroes all,

Most of them are in the Hall.

Where’s the “throw the bums out” call

Since they used speed, or scuffed the ball?

***

When Barry Bonds breaks Aaron’s mark,

Skeletons will fill the park.

Bud will lie to us again

About how much he knew, and when.

Fans will throw their hands up high

And try to find a reason why

They ought to go to baseball games

And see stars besmirch their own names.

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A Poem for Lou Piniella

Quite a fella,
That Lou Piniella.
He ain’t yella,
You can tella.

He joined the Cubs
To lead those scrubs
And prove past flubs
Were yesterday’s stubs.

A Herculean task?
Don’t even ask.
In last year’s grotesque,
They finished dead last.

But with Al Soriano
And Carlos Zambrano,
The team may be on to
A World Series, pronto.

And if the Cubs win
A World Series, then
The fans will have gin
Drenching their chins.

If not, then old Lou
Will have some ‘splainin’ to do,
Which he’ll probably do
With a meltdown or two.