Baseball Waltz (Let’s Go To The Ball Park)
Words and music by Tom Rinaldi
(Scroll down to play the MP3)
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There’s something about looking out on a big field of green
A diamond, four bases, and ninety feet in-between
The players go ‘round with their pant legs rolled up to their knees
The smell of fresh peanuts ‘a roasting is caught in the breeze
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Let’s go to the ball park
I haven’t been in a while
I used to watch my favorite slugger
Knock that baseball a mile
Let’s go to the ball park
Let’s be kids again
Hot dogs with mustard
And frozen custard
Just like it was back then
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The magic allure of the game is as pure as the snow
With nicknames like Lefty and Dizzy and Murderer’s Row
And nothing’s as pretty as watching the infield “get two”
Or watching a pop up fall out of a big sky of blue
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Repeat Chorus
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Where else can you go
Where they stop the show
Two-thirds of the way
Just to stretch and sing a song
Before they continue to play?
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[audio:http://bardball.com/audio/01 Track 1.mp3]Repeat Chorus
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Posted 6/5/2009
A Baseball Poem #2
by Stephen Jones
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Slower than a slider
the sun the breeze today
a wild pitch of weather is
The sky settled in May’s dugout
a month’s sun-and-cloud teaming
. . . and what of defense?
We’ll see large bulky clouds
crouch, the sun concuss
& diamond dreams evolve.
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For more of Stephen’s poetry and photographs, check out his blog.
Posted 6/1/2009
A Baseball Poem #1
by Stephen Jones
All the marbles explosive
shuttled day-to-day each
& every swing a pitch
changing now the switch
to summer to the hard ball
arcing high a home run.
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For more of Stephen’s poetry and photographs, check out his blog.
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Posted 5/29/2009.
On Not Being Able to Say Aloud That WALKS KILL YOU
by Todd Herges
A dozen young boys,
caps colored alike,
dream diamond greatness
and shiny steel spikes.
But theirs are mere rubber,
no hair under arms.
They play just for love
and to earn coach’s charm.
Pitching is paramount.
Throwing strikes is the key.
Walks always kill,
issue two and you’ll see.
Don’t aim or you’ll miss,
hear the fat lady’s song.
The leash will be short,
the ump’s sweat stains grow long.
But these hairless boys
with soft cleats, fragile confidence,
hear the boos amid boosts,
and need upbeat assurance.
So I pick a distraction,
my disgust notwithstanding,
and I say: “Nothin’ hurt,
mind your foot where it’s landing.”
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Posted 5/19/2009