Browse all poems and songs in the 'Players' Category


Grand Slam Wandoo

by the Village Elliott

For the Giants Keystone Combo

Tomlinson hit first home run today,
Wham-Bam, hit a grand slam, Cha-Cha’s way.
Crawford’s first home run, too,
Was a Grand Slam Wandoo,
One more Giants keystone double play.

 



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.

 



Words

by Dan Quisenberry

don’t believe that lie
about sticks and stones

words are the strongest weapon
under the sun

it’s words that start wars,
broker the peace

in the beginning was the word
and it was God,
and still is

and if you use the wrong ones
i’ll sock you in the nose
ram your car

and if you use the right words
i will praise you
kiss your face
and long for your company

 



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-
that-blink-of-an-eye,
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.

 



Wanna Bet?

by the Village Elliott

“I’m afraid it’s so,” said Shoeless Joe.
Lost confession? Though cleared, Judge said “So?”
“As a player, didn’t bet,”
Pete Rose still claiming, yet
Baseball says, “Hall of Fame: Like Joe, ‘No!'”

Despite new evidence, some still claim,
“Say Pete gambled; so what? Why still blame?
Hall of Fame? Rose should go!”
I say, “First Shoeless Joe.
Be far better for ‘Good of the Game.'”

 

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