by James Finn Garner
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Ken Williams wasn’t skeevy
About getting Jake Peavy.
Though he’s got a bum ankle
And his record should rankle,
He’ll spare us the terrors
Of Jose Contreras.
Published 8/11/09
No Matter How Good
by Stu Shea
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No matter how good
Or no matter how much,
We all know that know A-Rod can’t hit in the clutch.
Ignore how he’s gotten
The Yanks out of dutch.
The guys say that A-Rod can’t hit in the clutch.
They’ll wave their statistics
And say such and such,
But we know that A-Rod can’t hit in the clutch.
The radio told us,
And they’ve got the touch.
That’s how we know he can’t hit in the clutch.
All those smart guys can go back
And hide in their hutch.
‘Cause I say that A-Rod can’t hit in the clutch.
Obama is Kenyan!
Health care’s a crutch!
And I know that A-Rod can’t hit in the clutch!
.
Stu’s new book, Pink Floyd FAQ, containing everything you’ve ever wanted to know about Pink Floyd, is out now. Buy it in bookstores or on the web. Do it. Now.
Posted 8/10/2009
“The Baseball Song” by Matt Wessel
For more on Matt’s music, check out his website:Â MattWesselMusic.com.
Ode to Scott Podsednik
by James Finn Garner
.
Scottie Pods, Scottie Pods,
What were the chances?
Oh, what were the odds?
Cut by the Rockies because you’re too old–
Your step getting heavy, your bat growing cold–
The Pale Hose invite you back into the fold
And you climb your way back like the grinder of old.
Fans love a player still hungry and bold
Who refuses to note for whom the bell’s tolled.
In the hot summer night, the scoreboard explodes
As you dig hard to mine one more season of gold.
Scottie Pods, Scottie Pods,
What were the chances?
Oh, what were the odds?
.
Posted 8/6/2009
Pastime
by Casey Hannan
At a baseball game, so high up
the birds seem bigger than the players,
bigger than the crowned lion mascot,
and bigger even, than my expectations,
because, you see, I didn’t root, root, root,
for anyone. The Royals sucked and the
Rangers were visitors, so it was
heresy to cheer when they won, which
I think they did, though it’s hard to
remember when all I see, looking back
through the heat, hazy like it is in a
too hot car, is a crowd of people all
trying not to fling themselves onto
the field, so green you could swim
in it, to cool down to the most basic
part of the experience: American History
and the obligation spun from those pages.
For more of Casey’s poetry, check out his blog, Poetry, DUH.
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Posted 8/4/2009