Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
By Stu Shea
Sure, they won the World Series just two years ago,
But that’s history, bro.
Get hip!
Chicago is slumping
The media’s dumping
And everyone’s jumping the ship.
The season’s turned into the crumbs of corn chips.
No one’s even surprised
At Guillen’s rude slips of the lip
For his team’s gotten older
And the value of aging, .230-ish sluggers is — zip.
Shouldn’t someone ring Kenny Williams’ bell?
Inform him, pray tell,
That after two years,
Even good socks can smell?
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.
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.
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.
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.