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Jeff Kent, Courageous Dodger

by Stu Shea

“It’s hard to influence a big group. We’ve got some good kids on the team. Don’t get me wrong, please don’t misinterpret my impressions. [But] it’s hard to translate experience. I don’t know why they don’t get it.
“It’s close to the end of the season. And a career for me, too. I’m running out of time. A lot of kids in here, they don’t understand that…and it’s hard to get them to understand that because they’ve haven’t been there. So there lies some frustration.”

–Jeff Kent, 9/21/07

Jeff Kent, second base for the Dodgers,
Is defending his fellow old codgers.

Says the kids don’t play right—
Most are black, and he’s white.

Got that? Roger. Kent’s a mean-spirited, selfish racist who just wants to get his name in the papers and doesn’t care about the mess he leaves behind, especially if it makes him look good and other people look bad.

Posted 10/18/07

 

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Ode To Willie Mays’ God-Boy AKA The Juice

by Sid Yiddish

Say hey, Willie! Say hey!

Your god-boy Barry is a true filly when it comes to being the next king of swat,
But it won’t matter much, ‘coz he lost his touch, once he started fillin’ up on THE JUICE.

Just like Sammy Sosa and young Mark McGwire, whose Louisvilles were on fire in that great summer of ’98, setting’ new swat records, fillin’ up on THE JUICE.

But THE JUICE is a noose and it only gets tighter, makes the swinger a
singer all the way to the bank, year after year after year, which is until THE JUICE starts to fizz

And the smacking goes to intermittent rain delays down on the field that so many play-by-play color-men describe as “dismal.”

But it’s no matter, Willie, for this boy is your pride and joy, and his greatness will never cause you fatigue.

Still.

Eyebrows will be raised across the league,
The young and the old will debate.

Ruth vs. Aaron, vs. Bonds vs. Mantle vs. Gehrig vs. Sosa vs. McGwire vs. A-Rod vs. any other future famer that is still left intact after they’ve had THE JUICE.

All seems so iffy if you ask me (but you don’t).

So.

Say hey, Willie! Say hey!
There will come the day when THE JUICE will dry up and blow away and all those swingers will age prematurely and become arthritic cripples and bent and lame in their retirement,
Just like you did sadly, dear Willie,
Just like you, without THE JUICE.

Posted 10/17/07

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500 (Thome, Rodriguez and Thomas)

by James Finn Garner

500
Is such an exquisite digit–
The miles in a Daytona race,
Fortune‘s biggest firms anyplace,
And Fiat’s postwar car-midget.

500
The dingers hit by “Big Hurt” Frank,
Of the sweet stroke and bitter knees,
A-Rod, whipping boy for the Yankees,
And Thome, svelte as a Sherman tank.

500
Their several teams never captured it all.
The sluggers pushed on in good years and bad,
Taking what pleasure there was to be had
In campaigns of .500 ball.

500!
Carved into history like Cy Nostradamus.
As Father Time erodes, hobbles and tames,
That mark will always shine next to these names.
500 cheers for Thome, Rodriguez and Thomas!

Posted 10/16/07 

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After Tinker and Evers…

By Stuart Shea

It’s been 100 years,
Since we’ve had the last dance.
After Tinker and Evers,
We had no Chance.

Gabby was silent and
Sosa splintered, corked like his bat,
Imagine that!
Santo, Jenkins, Billy, Ernie, Hack…
No series, no deposit, no return,
No going back.
100 years.
Even the great Cavaretta caved before the “curse.”
All the tears,
All the bad to worse, even before Michael Wuertz.

It is no curse of goat, owner, or drug,
No virus or flu bug,
But rather an indictment of all things Chicago,
Our own luck, our character, our fate.
Our go-go no-show ego.

47th St. to downtown,
North side to Oak Park,
Chatham, Maxwell Street.
(Remember that?)
Our culture is picked, chopped, and reaped by those in London, New York, Ibiza, Amsterdam, just like at each harvest time, when our baseball hopes disappear.

Our writers ignored, ripped off, marginalized, and shunted,
House music stolen and bastardized,
The blues Anglicized,
Our schools vandalized,
Lottery money wasted and schools go begging,
Our leaders prostituted before mobsters, construction racketeers, the hospitality industry.
We are the breadbasket of America, yet many go hungry.

Tonight, all we ask is a damn World Series.
All we want is a fair shake from God,
From baseball.
That’s all.
But the fiefdom of the game has screwed us.

Peter Ueberroth,
Commissioner en route to Presidency,
Moved our third home game to San Diego in ’84,
Licking the feet of NBC, the television robber barons.

Well, I haven’t forgotten, you lying scoundrel.
Bully. King of Creeps, factotum for self-anointed kings.
With your ambition for greater things,
Big business cudgel,
Apologist.
Forced lights on us in ’88, with
Blackmail to fans and bribes to local government,

And we were so innocent back then
To think it was just a simple question of right or wrong.
Not for long.
As not to see that it was no longer our game,
If indeed if it ever was.
Free market for owners, free agency for players,
Keep moving, folks,
Nothing free here.

So our heroes, our bought and rented men
Play for glory, applause, salary,
Because it’s their job.

Sure, they wear Chicago hats,
But they don’t live here.
Not like in the old days when players would drink with fans at Ray’s,
Dick Selma buying the house a round,
Ron Santo living off Berteau Avenue,
Glenn Beckert, too,
Ernie and Billy commuting from Chatham.
Even Dave Martinez lived in Roselle.
So what the hell.

Once again, our resources—our attention, our time, our intention, our good will, our money—go out of town.

We root, root, root not for our heroes,
But for ourselves, our egos,
Our own meager sense of worth,
Which we think will be conferred onto us by
Rich guys in pinstripe suits
Beating other rich guys in pinstripe suits,
Just like at the Stock Exchange.

Posted 10/8/07.