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Walt Whitman’s Scorecard

by Jonathan Eig

.

I SING the Body injected:
The fans embrace me with their massive arms, and I embrace them with mine, bigger;
They will not stop till I am convicted, denying everything,
And destroy their innocence, and shake them with the hormonal growth of the Soul.

Was it doubted that those who inject their own bodies enlarged themselves;
And that those who defile the game now defile the game forever?
And if the body does not grow as much as the Soul?
And if the body were not so large as the Soul, what dosage is required?

.

Posted 4/17/09

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God Talks to Detroit

by James Finn Garner

For all the times you’ve prayed to me,
Beseeching for a victory–
“Let him strike out,” “We need this hit” –
And clogged my in-box with this stuff,

You choose to hold Opening Day—
Praise be to me—on Good Friday?
People, watch you don’t make me mad,
Or the Tiges will get what the Lions had.

.

Posted 4/9/09.

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Whore Me Out at the SkyBox

by James Finn Garner

In honor of the 100th anniversary of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and the 85th and final year of Yankee Stadium.

Casey Kelly had quite the job,
Quite the envy of every slob.
This businessman was a slip’ry eel,
Cutting deals, greasing wheels.
He knew f*ck-all of the national game,
But of this he was not ashamed.
When he saw poor saps lined up at the park
Trying to buy tickets, he’d bark,

“Whore me out at the skybox!
My firm takes care of the tab.
Clients just flew in from Washington.
We need to get plastered to get the deal done.
Oh, we’ll write this off on our taxes,
Champagne, sirloin and fresh lox.
We might

EVEN

WATCH

SOME

Of the game
From our sweet skybox!”

Posted 10/23/08

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Play Ball: The Last Two Words of an Anthem

by Todd Herges

As the home of the brave
fades now quickly away,
nobody stops to ask why

that the land of the free
came to suddenly be
a pariah destined to die.

While that banner yet waves
And the Fed tries to save,
I’d like to give it a try,

so with proof through the night,
I’ll state clearly my fight:
one reason, tinged with green dye.

To th’ red glare of rockets,
mobs hold out their pockets,
all empty, so let’s have a cry,

or on ramparts let’s watch
the World Series on Fox
to forget how big was the lie.

Posted 10/8/08

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J.P. Ricciardi, Toronto’s Pencil-Pushing Party

By Stuart Shea

I.
J.P. Ricciardi, Toronto’s pencil-pushing party,
has a big, big, big, big, mouth.
Adam Dunn’s a hitter (tho J.P. sez he’s a quitter)
And he’s happy hacking homers in the south.

When Ricciardi, on the radio, dissed Dunn to Blue Jay nation,
It came without a thorough explanation.
Canadian guys, from B.C. to P.E.I,
Said, “J.P. must have skipped his medication!”

II.
Now J.P. says the two have talked it all over–
But Dunn says it just isn’t so.
The Jays fired their skipper, but look out, J. The Ripper–
You might be the next one to go.

Posted 6/30/08