Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
The pinstripes completed a three-game sweep
Of feather-flustered Toronto.
They extended their home winning streak
To 16 against you-know-who.
The irony so far this season?
The Yankees have done it with running,
Not their trademark long-ball slugging.
Toronto still may lead the division…
But is Toronto’s lead all bluster?
Right now, New York has its number.
It’s once again chic
To follow the Freak.
While San Diego hitters
Would probably rather be someplace like Mozambique.
Author of my talents, only You have I praised,
To Thee only shall my hands be raised.
For when I’m burdened with the weight of my team,
To my rescue You come, it will always seem.
For outstanding is my play on any given day
When You intervene and help lead the way.
Grateful to You I’ll always be
For exploiting my talents for the world to see.
For out there on the diamond before thousands of fans,
We players perform the best we can.
Perform we must both day and night,
Seeking victory with all our might.
Seeking a place with other sports greats
In the Hall of Fame where ability rates.
Where Ruth, Cobb, Robinson and the rest
Stand proudly enshrined as baseball’s best.
Excerpted from ‘An Athlete’s Prayer,’ c. 1966, by Ed Charles, major league third baseman (Kansas City Athletics, New York Mets) from 1961-69
20 years
in the same “ugly ass” uniform.
2 full seasons with 40 strikeouts.
Yeah, 40!
A near-.400 season
One more victim of the ’94 strike.
Yet
Consistency
Loyalty
Generosity
Intensity
Are a life beyond numbers
That a plaque can’t cover.
San Diego was proud
of Mr. Padre
And so are we all.
I dreamed Ted Williams
leaning at night
against the Eiffel Tower, weeping.
He was in uniform
and his bat lay at his feet
– knotted and twiggy.
“Randall Jarrell says you’re a poet!” I cried.
“So do I! I say you’re a poet!”
He picked up his bat with blown hands;
stood there astraddle as he would in the batter’s box,
and laughed! flinging his schoolboy wrath
toward some invisible pitcher’s mound
– waiting the pitch all the way from heaven.
It came; hundreds came! all afire!
He swung and swung and swung and connected not one
sinker curve hook or right-down-the middle.
A hundred strikes!
The umpire dressed in strange attire
thundered his judgment: YOU’RE OUT!
And the phantom crowd’s horrific boo
dispersed the gargoyles from Notre Dame.
And I screamed in my dream:
God! throw thy merciful pitch!
Herald the crack of bats!
Hooray the sharp liner to left!
Yea the double, the triple!
Hosannah the home run!