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Vogelsong for the Asking

By Stu Shea

The ‘Jints needed some starting arm to go long
So Bruce Bochy sang out a sweet Vogelsong.

To go east while trailing 2-0 would be wrong,
So S.F. was glad to have Ryan Vogelsong.

Pence gives talks, Wilson’s beard’s like King Kong,
But Monday the star was one R. Vogelsong.

Working the fastball in/out like ping-pong,
Control and command were the sweet Vogelsong.

He hit and he pitched and he rang SL’s gong,
The 35-year-old ex-Buc R. Vogelsong.

If San Fran continues to play hard and strong,
They’ll owe it so much to that old Vogelsong.

Short of running down Castro in naught but a thong,
He did it all Monday, did R. Vogelsong.

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News of the Day

by James Finn Garner

The hitter for our era
Triple Crown Miguel Cabrera

Texas falls to wild card
From A’s maulers going yard

Yankees claim at last the East
Atlanta goes to best from least

All the pieces now in place
For the annual October race

But my joy is kept in check
Hearing of Pat Neshek
Whose baby boy Gehrig passed on
Amidst all the celebrations

We cheer as one
But grieve alone
November comes
And we are gone

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Crowd Control

by Hilary Barta

If you’re crowding the plate you’ll need pluck,
‘Cause a crowder by pitches gets struck
What an ace doesn’t like
In the face he will strike,
So you better be quick when you duck.

 

Hilary’s limerick blog LimerWrecks should be on your daily checklist.

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Baseball Reflection (With Division Races Happening)

by Stephen Jones

Still, even more so now as teams race to
October playoffs, is the quiet credo:
“Nothing is harder in any given sport,
than to hit a round ball with round bat.”
Sure, pitching dynamics are well known
by a commentator’s flushed tone:
“Sinker. Slider. Fastball inside!”
A pitcher’s game, yes, no denying:

The post-season is always marked
by whose skilled hurlers are best –
and how teams advance, have lost,
and depends on mound intent.

But it’s still amazing that physics works – that
in our pastime it’s still “Round ball, round bat.”

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The Call

by Charles Ghigna

Like many kids of the 1950s, I loved baseball. I played on teams throughout my youth and in 1964 I received an invitation to spring training camp for a tryout with the Pittsburgh Pirates. I’m still waiting to hear from them. In the meantime, I’ve been writing a few poems…

I may have lost a step or two,
(Or four, or six, or eight).
My bat speed may have slowed a bit,
(Much like a rusty gate).

My fastball may have lost some pop,
My slider may be have slid,
But when I dream of baseball,
I become a kid.

A glint of steel in my young stare,
Swagger in my stride,
I saunter to the plate
With confidence and pride.

A fastball down the middle,
I swing with all my might,
Old Rawlings soars past the crowd
And deep into the night.

There I am in summer’s glow
Warmed by hometown cheers,
Rounding third and striding home,
Back to my boyhood years.

Suddenly I’m sixty-six
Asleep in winter’s sun,
Dreaming of what might have been
When I was twenty-one.

Still I wait to take the call,
To hear them say my name,
An old man dreaming of the day
He played a young man’s game.

Charles Ghigna (Father Goose) is a poet, children’s author, speaker, and nationally syndicated feature writer for Tribune Media Services.