Two for Ron Santo and the Hall of Fame
By Stuart Shea
The Hall of Fame’s honor and riches
Ron Santo deserved without pitches.
. But denied for too long
. Was the man’s well-earned song
By an old bunch of sons of bitches.
.
by Cary Donham
Ron’s a hero to folks diabetic
‘Cause on the field he was super-kinetic
. Whether diving for balls
. Or arguing calls
Or clicking his heels so aesthetic
Requiem for Sam Henry
by Becky Binks
Late autumn brings damp and rain;
The baseball season is over again.
The Redbirds were soaring;
Their fans were roaring.
And Texas went home empty-handed.
The holidays and new year’s come,
Bringing dreams of series rings to everyone.
The hot stoves start burning,
With free agent yearning,
And revulse at the salaries commanded.
Spring brings tulips and green grass.
Training and opening day are here at last.
Northern fans bundle for the game,
Southern weather is a lot more tame.
And all hope to catch a foul single-handed.
The late Samuel Henry Donham (a college and semi-pro first baseman whose career ended in injury, and later a junior high baseball coach) instilled a love of baseball in his family, including his daughter-in-law Becky. She is a longtime Cubs fan whose faith is wavering.
Yeshiva Blues
by Sid Yiddish
At bat was the great Solomon Mitzvah
A clutch-hitting Jew from South Boston’s Yeshiva Finstah
He smashed the ball hard,
Straight out of the yard
But it bounced back and wounded his kishkah.
The Venezuelan League
by Hilary Barta, assisted by Sid Yiddish
In the winter they swarm to Caracas
Where the fans, true to form, shake maracas
. Down there all the players
. Don’t wear many layers
As the sun keeps them warm in the tuchas.
Glowering at Bowering
by Pseud à Nîmes
New York, London, Paris, Munich
Everybody talk about, mmm….
Pop music, aye, and news and sport
But to Bardball blast, we must retort
From the bleachers, and godly seats
Loving testimonies – and testy tweets
Au contraire, in Europe there is but little
Interest – like our economy, entirely brittle
In our excitement, we do refrain
From all small talk of one Ferris Fain
Unknown to us, across the Golden Pond
In our view, his sport just a frond
Of the nascent game we called rounders
Those damn Yankees – cads and bounders!
