Browse all poems and songs in the 'Scandals' Category


The Canning of Mr. Met

by James Finn Garner

With apologies (not really needed) to Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in a season’s run
.   By the characters ’round Citi Field
The yardbird gramps will loiter on ramps
.   And tell you to keep your eyes peeled.
The borough of Queens has staged horrible scenes
.   But the horriblest of them yet
Was a dark night in May, with the team put away,
.   We got flipped off by Mr. Met.

Now Mr. Met, let no one forget,
.   Has been around since the Amazin’s began.
The face of the team had a smile that beamed
.   Brighter than any real Gotham man.
So when miserable play, day after day,
.   Leaves the line twixt patience and torture blurred
It should be no surprise that even this guy
.   Is reduced to giving the bird.

The Brewers had bombed ol’ Jacob deGrom
.   And, heckled by some random slob,
Mr. Met let loose with a low-flying goose
.   And now is out of a job.
When you see him there, in the crowd in Times Square,
.   Taking snaps for tips with Iowa teens
With Elmo and Kermit, slow down and permit
.   Him to reflect on what might have been.

 



Harper/Strickland

by Stephen Jones

Baseball’s a game of skill;
That’s what we all know.
It’s not the NFL,
Where headhunting’s bought and sold.

But what about history
and baseball’s unwritten rule?
When a batter’s tagged a pitcher twice,
What’s a hurler to do?

As a sniper with a (maybe) grudge,
Hunter Strickland thought he had the pip:
He’d aim, then fire. He’d drill Bryce Harper
Dead-on in the hip,

And as Bryce Harper later said,
“At least he wasn’t aiming at my head”
(Although some medicos might concur:
His brains are definitely not up there).

No surprise, Harper charged the mound
And gave Strickland some punches.
Strickland obliged him back, and in the end
It was like a battle of dunces.

When the smoke clears, MLB will admister
Band-Aid punishment to fit the crime:
Each will pay a chunk of change
And probably serve some time.

Just don’t expect MLB
To solve its unseen baggage.
Afterall, like in hockey,
This stuff is good green cabbage.

 



September 23, 1908

by Laura Weck

In baseball, as it is in life,
Not always everything will stay the same–
Rules may change further down the road
As they could in a baseball game.

In life when you err, you may
at times find an atoner,
But not so with baseball
and “Fred Merkle’s Boner.”

Though there was great world news
Back in those days,
Nothing could overshadow
Poor Fred’s Bonehead play

That year was a roller-coaster
Predicting which of the teams might play
and that was only decided
On the season’s very last day.

That stellar season would provoke
Even Joe Tinker to rub,
“If you don’t furiously hate the Giants,
You aren’t really a Cub.”

After that year I can’t fathom
That ever again there will be
As thrilling a contest, as that on
September twenty-three.

It was the bottom of the ninth
The score tied one to one,
With Merkle standing at first
and anxious to run.

The Polo Ground fans were a rowdy bunch
Often storming the field
After a tumultous win, never imagining
Their team to another would yield.

New York’s Birdwell hit one
Allowing McCormick get home.
Rookie Merkle rounded second, then
To the clubhouse he’d roam.

The fans stormed the field not knowing
Johnny Evers had been guaranteed
A new rule that now
The players must heed.

The folks perched on poles
Came close to falling.
When New York got the loss
The fans started bawling.

They spat and they fought
When they learned of the loss.
So irate the ump, to the stands
The “winning” ball he’d toss.

In public they jeered him.
They told him he stank.
So distraught was Fred Merkle
His tombstone was left blank.

 



“America’s Favorite Pastime” by Todd Snider

 



The Baseball Brawl

By Millie Bovich

It all started when the pitcher threw a ball too much inside,
And the batter kinda whispered, “This guy’s style I can’t abide.”

When it happened sure a second time in inning Number Three,
Thought the batter, more suspicious, “Did he try to dump on me?”

So the manager protesting gave the ump a nasty sign
And a number of his teammates jumped right up and crossed the line.

Then the bench began to empty and the team all rose as one–
That’s precisely as it happened when the donnybrook spun on.

The other bench rose also, running towards the pitcher’s mound,
And the grays and whites all tangled and a couple hit the ground.

Caps and mitts went flying, with the pitching mound a mess,
And the lefty center fielder came right in without duress,

Then the language got specific when the knuckles hit their mark,
And the melee just intensified that Sunday at the park.

There was shoving, there was pushing, there were words we can’t repeat.
Not a fan in Tiger home field was ensconced upon his seat.

We couldn’t tell was gray or white, but someone threw a punch,
And who knows where it landed in that sweaty, brawling bunch?

Then a fielder smacked a shortstop, and the rook from second base
Joined the brouhaha depositing his fist on catcher’s face,

But the fella at the organ played and never missed a note,
His talented musicality endeav’ring to promote.

The relievers in the bullpen thought they’d never get the call,
But they stopped their practice pitches and proceeded to the brawl.

The bag at first stood empty, he wouldn’t be left out,
Then he decked a tall right fielder, that’s what he was all about.

Sure, the crowd became unruly, they had come to watch a game.
“This ain’t hockey,” from the box seats, “but I like it just the same.”

They whistled and they hollered, it was all that you could hear,
And someone in the bleachers spilled a 32-ounce beer.

“Mayhem, this is mayhem,” said the lady in the hat,
But the brawlers kept on brawling, disregarding all of that.

The people in the grandstands screamed their epithets as well,
And what broke loose that afternoon was bloody, holy hell.

Someone bumped the hawkster selling dogs and frosty drink,
And the mustard pot spilled over and the place began to stink.

The player guarding second ran, his teammates to defend,
And the television spokesman yelled, “Who knows how this will end?”

Now third base too was vacant when the player there joined in,
And you couldn’t hear the ump above the tumult and the din.

So 40,000 fans were there and some were almost numb,
To witness what the papers said was pandemonium.

And years from now some Tiger fans will swear that they were there,
When the baseball brawl erupted with which nothing can compare.

Finally, yes, finally, the umps regained control,
With common sense and pleading and a trifle of cajole.

So it ended with no inj’ries and each player took his post
With no thought of his activities about which he could boast.

The fans regained composure and each settled in the sun,
And the record books recorded that the Detroit Tigers won!

 

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