by Millie Bovich
If you walk around the ballfield in the darkness of the night
If you let your mind just wander, love of baseball comes to light.
For the ballpark is enchanted and its magic doesn’t cease
Sights and smells and sounds surround it, though it seems at last at peace.
Love of baseball never leaves you, always there at your behest
And the players ever loyal, always there to do their best.
On the wall, the tigers crouching, prowling in protective guard
Watching well for no intrusion of their namesake’s sacred yard.
No flags waving to remind us of the teams that come to play
No lights shining, chasing darkness, making night as bright as day.
You’ll hear cheers and jeers diminished of the season’s games well played
Gone forever, not forgotten, though particulars may fade.
And the dust of sliding runners, safe despite the sizzled throw
In the air it seems to linger as the seasons come and go.
Yes, the losing is quite painful, and the “W” like gold
A no-hit game so special and a happy story told.
Smells of vendors’ foods have lingered as the wafting breeze will show
Stimulating well your senses, scents you miss and love and know.
And the scoreboard shows no numbers, no statistics grace its face
Stats invisible and hidden till next season’s welcome race.
In your eyes the park is empty all the seats in silence wait
For the fans again rejoicing, for the opening of the gate!
Millie Bovich may be the oldest fan and regular contributor to Bardball. “I had the pleasure of meeting All-Star Johnny Pesky when he visited the Detroit office of the FBI where I worked,” she writes, “and met and married a special agent from New York and made a Tigers fan out of him!”
by R.J. Lesch
The books must balance, so accountants say.
For every credit on the books, we must
Record a debit. Bills come in; we pay
Them off and write it down. In baseball, just
The same is true. A hit is chalked up to
The hitter and the pitcher both. A game
Won by my team must be a loss for you.
If we give credit, so we must give blame.
For every Thomson, Branca there must be.
For Mazeroski, Terry. Wilson, Buck.
Gordon and Familia, recently.
Then Hosmer, Duda. Perez, Matz. Tough luck.
The calculus of baseball can be cold,
But books must balance, once the tale is told.
by the Village Elliott
Dusty Baker will manage D.C.
Buddy’s tenure with Nats not to be.
Did Nats react to claim
That “Black” in Bud’s last name
Ain’t what league meant by diversity?
by James Finn Garner
So now, my friends, it has come to this,
The World Series of 2015
The kids ablaze on the New York Amazin’s
Versus the Big Blue Royal Machine.
Let’s consider all that’s gone before
As we bid the warm weather goodbye
Some teams did roll as had been foretold
While others came through with surprise.
The new Cubbie kids swung some mean bats
The Blue Jays refused to show fear
Motown fell dead, now needs a retread
While the Giants await an even year.
The Dodgers in their close-ups again blinked
Staid St. Louis became hot and unglued
The Nationals sputtered, then throttled each other
The Lone Star State watched a marvelous feud
So when someone tells you baseball is boring,
Whether online, at work, in a bar,
Don’t chuckle or sigh. Look them straight in the eye
And say, “Baseball’s not boring — you are.”
By Stuart Shea
I’d rather drink Harvey’s Bristol Creme
Than watch Matt Harvey shut down my team.