Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
“Tick, tick, tick”
A sound I never hoped to associate with baseball.
Sick, sick, sick
The thinking that baseball is dull.
Ick, ick, ick
The inside of Rob Manfred’s mind
Maybe that’s unkind
But some people are blind
To what makes baseball such a kick!
On a warm June evening in my 54th year
my 16-year-old son asks me to hit him fungos
my diminished prowess clearly states
who is the coach and who is the player
I hit rainbow fly balls to his left and right
he sprints lithely, with grace, speed and
determination after the cowhide spheres
arcing to earth
sweat glistens on his brow and mine
I see the present and past collide in
intergenerational confusion
vicariously reliving the simple uncluttered
pleasure of pure pursuit
to test one’s physical limits against time and space
I loft one hope and challenge after another
into the twilight
and my son gives his all in the chase
he is not consciously aware of the metaphors
of this exchange
my inner delight is immense in this physical
give-and-take
the baseball tossed from my hand to bat to sky
to be snared in his glove and thrown back to me
the pattern repeated over and over
caught up in this rhythmic dance,
wishing time would pause in this magic moment
of ordinariness
I humbly acknowledge that life doesn’t get any sweeter than this
Baseball’s history
layered with myths, fables, stats
what will this year add?
Clayton Kershaws of the Third Kind (1977)
Rader, Doug the Lost Ark (1981)
Eas.Ley., the Extra-Terrestrial (1982)
Paulblairgeist (1982)
The Color Pujols (1985)
Back tu lo Witski (1985)
Who Framed Roger Bossard? (1988)
Houk (1991)
Joshreddick Park (1993)
Schindler’s Crisp (1993)
The Yost World: Joshreddick Park (1997)
Karsay If You Can (2002)
War of the Wertz (2005)
Inge of Spies (2015)
Wes Stock Story (2021)
The Babedalgrens (2022)
The kid’s seated on the bench.
His father’s standing in the rickety bleachers.
The kid’s team is trailing by a run.
The father’s screaming at the coach, the umpires,
everybody on the field and in the stands,
to put his boy into the game.
The kid’s small.
Others his own age
are from Brobdingnag
by comparison.
He can barely swing a bat.
His fielding’s more confusion
than skills.
And his pitching arm’s
as limp as lettuce.
And, besides, he despises baseball.
The kid’s praying the coach doesn’t look his way.
The father’s yelling won’t let up.
So the kid’s happy on the bench.
But misery can’t keep his mouth shut.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, and Red Sox fan, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books — “Covert”, “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” — are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.