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


Baseball Observation

by Stephen Jones

Most strikeouts and home runs in a season…
No, this was no “ball in play” season,
And everything wasn’t between the lines.

And maybe — somewhere — there is a reason
For records broken like stretched-out twine…
But just now, analytics don’t come to mind.

Maybe baseball’s met up with fiction?
Like Redford hit one into perdition?
(Dunno. In movies, metrics are out of season.)

 



Et Tu, Boog?

by James Finn Garner

Are modern baseballs really juiced?
Or are the players all strong like Moose
(Skowron)? Pure as a Babe (Ruth)
With no chems flowing in the sluice?

Hurlers have the (Vida) Blues
Wondering which pitch to use
But Ks are (Charlie) Spiking, too
Giving all their stats a Goose

(Gossage). So, is the baseball really Boof
(Bonser)? Is someone somewhere getting cues?
Whatever answer you may choose
We’re losing balls over the (Phil) Roof.

 



Imagined Commentary During a Game

by Stephen Jones

During a game, a commentator —
an ex-ball player — once said:
a manager’s job is hard.

“OK, so you’ve got twenty-five
children in a dugout …
and each one wants to be
treated just so different.

“I mean, it’s hard … I mean,
they all love to play the game,
right? But when you got children,
I mean, grown men who mebbe

“don’t wanna grow up, well,
then the manager’s got to be
part teacher, part mentor …
and also some kind of juggler.

“And all this while skating on thin ice —
dealing with egos and tantrums
and you-name-it?… No, no thank you.
Hey, believe me, I’m glad I got the

“chance to play in big league games —
that’ll never go away — but dealin’
with all that other stuff? No way.”

 



TV and the Twilight (Strike) Zone

by Stephen Jones

I watched in disbelief.
I can’t get no relief –
From an umpire whose eyesight
Is worse than a badger’s.

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was then, in my chair,
That I yawned tired air.
I dropped the remote,
And the room did darken . . .

.     And a carny voice did harken:
.     “Hur-ray! Hur-ray!
.     An instant baseball fan solution –
.     Coming soon, to your television.

.     “Fans – are you tired of bad calls?
.     Does the umpire need a vision check?
.     Do you think the strike zone
.     Moves around too much?

.     “Well then, have no fear –
.     The solution, it’s right here.
.     It’s called ‘Auto-Strike’ –
.     The new e-lec-tronic game in town.

.     “So, say goodbye to tradition
.     And the curse of bad vision.
.     ‘Auto-Strike’ will cure
.     Each and every umpire call!”

.     (Disclaimer: The Salem’s Lot Nine
.     Will now miss its boo-and-hiss time
.     And the ever-popular fan favorite –
.     Burning umpires at the stake.)

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

I shifted in my chair,
Of the game unaware,
And continued my reverie
Of balls, strikes . . . and late-night TV.

.      Laughter came from off-screen,
.     From an audience of the dream,
.     And there was a smirking host
.     Who thought he was being clever:

.     “Just to be clear . . . the ball is scanned,
.     Just like cereal or a country ham
.     Off a bar code at a grocery store?
.     And what would happen then,

.     “If it didn’t correctly scan in?
.     This is baseball, not a market,
.     And you just can’t call out:
.     ‘Hey . . . price check, aisle four.’”

Here quoth the baseball,
Its wings made of leather:
“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

It was almost 2:00 am when I awoke.
An infomercial was spewing smoke
About saving me time and money . . .
And dreams replacing reality.

.     “Yessir, yessir . . . get it now, get it here.
.     From those folks who brought you
.     ‘The Pocket Baseball’ and ‘One-Pitch Wonder’,
.     And the ever-popular ‘One That Got Away’.”

Even as I arose and shook my head
And stumbled off to bed,
The sonorous voice behind me said:

“Balls are strikes and
Strikes are balls. Evermore.”

 



Baseball Is . . .

by Stephen Jones

A contradiction—

of lazy clouds which
like counted sheep
unroll slowly overhead,
and did-you-see-that plays,
routinely made, which
flicker like lightning
beneath the skin.

Baseball was—and is—
born slow,
with metaphors for a head,
but when least expected,
it will rage—a storm.

 

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.