Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
The baseball got wet in morning
dew
and became slimy
and hard to throw
and if the ball got lost in the high grass
of the pasture behind the backstop, among
the snakes and cow flops, everyone
had to look for it — or else.
Old bats worn and cracked burned
our hands if the ball hit on the trademark.
Our games were fierce and
often bloody —
we played to win because
some of us liked winning
and because some of us needed to win
more than some others did.
It’s no little thing
To be Orion Kerkering.
The Phillies keep on tinkering
And now will test his youthful wing
Not against org players who hit with a “ping”
But big-league hitters whose bats whistle and sing
At any imperfect offering.
Will he be Joker
Or will he be King?
It’s no little thing
To be Orion Kerkering.
With apologies to A.A. Milne
They’re changing the guard in th’ American League East,
The Orioles have risen to most from least.
New York and Boston spitting out dirt,
With the Bosox distinctly butt-hurt
Back East.
They’re changing the guard in th’ American League East,
The Orioles have risen to most from least.
The Devil Rays have earned their wild card
But the Blue Jays find hitting terrible hard!
Back East.
They’re changing the guard in th’ American League East,
The Orioles have risen to most from least.
It’s good to see baseball back in Charm City
But we’ll see if the playoffs are nearly as pretty
Back East.
Are you sinking in the quickstandings?
Does your bullpen perform crash-landings?
Were you chattering all through the summer,
yet now only muttering “bummer”?
Have bad hops invaded your dreams
As you wilt against much lesser teams?
Do your screamers hook foul or find leather?
Is your clean-up man under the weather?
Did you run yourself out of an inning?
Is your manager’s hairline thinning?
Does that magic number refuse to dwindle?
Can your champagne dreams even fill a thimble?
It seemed like a season you’d remember—
But then came the chill winds of September.
On the beach in Cape May, New Jersey,
my teenage son and I begin a baseball
catch in the early evening
We are way back from the water, where the sand still retains the day’s warmth
and other beach goers have long since departed
Gulls peck at the sand looking for morsels as the surf gently breaks in its rhythmic pattern
My wife sits and watches us from a distance,
forming the unbalanced triangle that is our life
We increase the distance between our long tosses
My leather glove snaps a sharp crack as it embraces the hurling sphere
I return a well rehearsed overhand throw that has many years of practice behind it
Our long shadows lengthen as the sun slowly sets and we increase our pace, throwing with greater velocity and heightened focus
A white three-masted schooner skirts the horizon
A kite ripples in the increasing breezes high above my son’s head
The tethered string being held by a far-away girl
Puffs of white sand arise around the ankles of my son on every toss
His skinny, well tanned body and freckled nose are absorbed in the moment
Low throws hug the sand and kick up grains
that stings my shins
An older departing couple apologizes for interrupting us as they pass between my son and me, lugging their
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beach chairs, floral towels and a large white canvas bag
I silently thank them for the opportunity to rest my now tiring arm
A slight chill in the salty air denotes a change
the summer is ending,
as is my middle age as well as my son’s innocence
Ready or not, we all have a new season to embrace