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


by Stephen Jones

Baseball’s a game of skill;
That’s what we all know.
It’s not the NFL,
Where headhunting’s bought and sold.

But what about history
and baseball’s unwritten rule?
When a batter’s tagged a pitcher twice,
What’s a hurler to do?

As a sniper with a (maybe) grudge,
Hunter Strickland thought he had the pip:
He’d aim, then fire. He’d drill Bryce Harper
Dead-on in the hip,

And as Bryce Harper later said,
“At least he wasn’t aiming at my head”
(Although some medicos might concur:
His brains are definitely not up there).

No surprise, Harper charged the mound
And gave Strickland some punches.
Strickland obliged him back, and in the end
It was like a battle of dunces.

When the smoke clears, MLB will admister
Band-Aid punishment to fit the crime:
Each will pay a chunk of change
And probably serve some time.

Just don’t expect MLB
To solve its unseen baggage.
Afterall, like in hockey,
This stuff is good green cabbage.


Is Baseball Too Slow for Modern Times?

by Stephen Jones

If you breathe analytics
And you eat numeral cryptics…
You will probably say so.

(And don’t forget the younger fanbase.
It wants everything like a race,

Where even a ballpark’s serenity
May get tweaked by “modernity”.)

But if you sit in the stadium,
Where its roar is like an ocean…
Most will definitely say “No”.

(For them, it’s like a small vacation
From the day-to-day vexation;

For them, it’s like a vertical beach,
With dog and beer in easy reach.)

Timeless, baseball’s a contradiction;
That’s a part of its evolution.
It’s a “hurry up” place … to go slow.


Casey at the Bat, Condensed

by Michael Ceraolo

In the ninth ’twas Casey at the plate,
With the chance to confirm he was great
The anonymous pitcher
Saw his chance to grow richer,
And dispatched star Casey to his fate.


A Tale of Two Cities

by Alan P. Rudy

Our freshman got promoted to varsity,
He was raking and dealing while at JV . . .
The big guys were facing adversity.
Why, oh, why have they done this to me?!

Wait, what? They’re not starting him at third?!
Coach’s sending him on a line drive to left . . .
The ball’s up the line, the catcher . . . my word,
Collision! The umpire’s tossed him, the turd!

Suspended three games for failing to slide
In his first game, his new teammates loved it.
Back in, he’s comfortable, emotions elide,
But pitching Game Two, oh! We almost died!

The guys quite like him, though not yet 15.
The coaches just start him, it’s still unexpected . . .
Almost rounding to normal, it must be a dream.
We worry and fret, while joyous and keen.


Alan P. Rudy, father of two ball-playing boys, is an associate professor of sociology at Central Michigan University.

The Big Picture

by Hilary Barta

Seats are dandy, a mile down from third
In the stands, way up high like a bird
In your eye-line, revealed
City skyline, green field
It’s so grand that you smile, feelings stirred.


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Copyright 2007 Bardball.