Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
1BÂ Â Jimmie Foxx
2BÂ Â Xavier Edwards
SSÂ Â Xander Bogaerts
3BÂ Â Ollie Sax
LF  Leovigildo Xiqués
CFÂ Â Xavier Paul
RFÂ Â Ox Eckhardt
CÂ Â Poindexter Williams
LHP  Xavier Cedeño
RHPÂ Â Xzavion Curry, Kanekoa Texeira, Axel Lindstrom
MGRÂ Â Dicta Johnson
Alex Bregman is very popular.
His arm is tired from last night.
He knows a tired arm helps his sinker.
Ninth inning, up one run.
5, 6, 7 in the order:
5 hitter two foul balls
swing and miss on outside sinker –
6 hitter takes fastball for strike one,
swings and misses at an outside fastball
takes splitter down and in for strike three –
7 hitter fouls off a center of the plate
fastball,
he breathes a sigh of relief –
takes sinker down and away for strike two.
His catcher calls for a waist pitch up high.
He realizes the catcher is unaware.
He shakes him off.
Again, the same high waist pitch.
Should he call time and explain.
He pounds his glove and shakes him off.
The umpire has been giving low and away
all night long.
He gets the sign.
Sinker low and away,
the batter swings and misses.
He has it,
an immaculate inning,
nine strikes – three outs.
All the OG sluggers the Old Fans watched play at Candlestick Park–
Miracle Mays, Mighty McCovey, Cyclone Cepeda, Uppercut Evans, Angry Jack Clark, King Kong Kingman, Redneck Jeff Kent, Mayhem Matt Williams,
and the Millennial Enigma himself—Titanic Barry Bonds!
But all those star shots launched into the infamous Candlestick jet stream
pale in comparison to the atomic arm displayed by visiting Pirate Roberto Clemente in 1968.
Old Fan still visualizes that cold, windy summer night,
watching Clemente dashing for, scooping up the bouncing baseball,
Negotiating the warning track deep in right-center field.
Clemente as whirling dervish spinning,
Athletic possession,
hardwired into baseball poetry,
like a Rumi poem divinely inspired.
Clemente’s arm now dispossessed from the body,
Superpower unleashed,
Following through like an Olympian hammer thrower.
Then the baseball rose into the fluorescent lights,
Gaining altitude,
Higher than a wicked drive by McCovey,
Now level with the disbelieving eyes of Old Fan in the upper deck behind home plate.
Who needs a cut-off man?
Not Clemente.
The majestic arc,
Seemingly suspended in the ethos,
slowly descended,
as the lumbering Giant runner rounded third base.
Into the waiting big paws of the Pirate catcher,
Who stood nonchalantly on top of home plate,
Clemente’s mighty heave softly fell.
The dead duck Giant runner?
He just stopped,
Staring in disbelief,
As the laughing catcher tagged him out.
So wax poetic about Clemente’s throws,
All you talking heads on the radio,
Who wish you saw him play.
Well, that foggy night at Candlestick,
During the summer of love in iconic San Francisco–
It ain’t on the internet.
That throw was visceral, not virtual–
You had to be there,
Amid the blowing hot dog wrappers and wafting cannabis smoke.
We were there, and you weren’t—
Old fans, real eyes,
Witnessing the Great Clemente live.
Ron Halvorson is a freelance writer and lifelong San Francisco Giants fan who went to his first game at windy Candlestick Park in the early 1960s.