Browse all poems and songs in the 'The Game Itself' Category


– finis –

by Millie Bovich

The Astros and the Dodgers were the Hatfields and McCoys,
And they battled on for seven games, those wild and scrappy boys.

And as the dust is settling with the Astros waiting rings,
The crowd erupts with cheering and the “you know” lady sings.

Now the well-worn mitts are on the shelf, the champagne warm and flat,
And “Astros Champs” emblazoned is on every this and that.

The bats are finally all in racks, the balls are all in bags,
The uniforms are cleaned and pressed, their player names on tags.

The scoreboard shows no numbers, the stats are all in books,
The vendors too have closed up shop, their aprons hang from hooks.

The managers are calm once more, the cleaned-up shoes in rows.
The game’s America’s pastime, that fact no one can oppose.

The towels are all washed and dried, the showers only drip,
The bat boys are all back in school, the umpires hear no lip.

The season’s been exciting, we’ve been taken to new heights
And will the last one out of the locker room, please — turn off — the lights!

 



Roadtrip

by Stephen Jones

The summer’s done, the season’s done,
And you’ve been on a very long journey.
The rising road no longer winds so much, and
On both sides, the once-lush fields are empty.
Autumn flickers like a golden fish.
You drive between here and tomorrow.

.                                                  And

It’s no surprise, that you pass roadside stands
Selling end-of-season distractions.
You see peach baskets full of analytics
(For wintering over, like last year’s apples),
Crates clearly marked Hustle and Muscle,
(But with dates that have now expired),
Stacks — like cords of wood — of guaranteed
Live arms (these also root-cellar bound),
Boxes and boxes of spins and grips, and
Canning jars of freshly made good stuff.

.                                                  And

Up ahead, on the road’s gravel shoulder,
Just before the winter turn,
Fired managers hold out their thumbs.

.                                                  Meanwhile,

A dusty red pickup honks, then passes you.
It’s full of young talent, like day workers, and
Heads back to the farm.

 



Off Season, On the Bright Side

by Hilary Barta

Goodbye pitches and homers well struck
So long switch-hits and gnome-beards for luck
No more blasts, no more clout
That’s the last, final out
It’s a bitch–but there’s no more Joe Buck.

 



Series Unction

by Stuart Shea

Everyone has theories
About why this World Series
Is packed with non-stop offense—

“The baseballs are slick
The pitchers can’t stick
Their nails into their surface.”

We know that these hitters
Don’t get the jitters
And can deal with sophisto defense—

They just loft the ball
Right over the wall
And make all the pitchers nerface.

 



Classroom (at a Bar)

by Stephen Jones

Question of relativity:
Which came first —
The player or the ball?

Question of old history:
When did the strike zone
Become a judgement call?

(Note: Question #1 was tabled,
As a “discussion” was started
about the merits of juice …
And Question #2 was stumbled
Over by be-spectacled
Umpires, and after boos.)

 

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