Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Inspired by recent spring training events.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” they say.
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Unless you’re a dad whose kid’s about
to get hit with a flying bat.
Michael X. Ferraro is the author, most recently, of Circus Catch.
In Spring Leagues named for cactus, grapefruits,
Fans first see team’s new Hot Stove recruits.
Each signing new reason
To cheer team’s off-season,
‘Til see new team die with same old boots.
Infielders play pepper sharpening reflexes.
Chooch works with the kid from Panama with a rocket for an arm.
Coach leans against the backstop staring into the gage,
shouts,
shorten the stance
lower the hands
move closer to the plate.
Waits for that thwack from his bat
Like the crack of a pick striking a vein of coal.
The Big Piece lines
balls fired from the wheels of the batting machine
puncture the netting.
Gone are J-Roll, Chase,
the Flying Hawaiian, Cliff,
Cole, Doc, and Pat the Bat–
World Champions.
Phils perennial migration to Clearwater,
. it’s Spring Training.
The chatter in camp is about manufacturing runs:
bases hits; moving runners; bringing guys home
using an assortment of prospects–
Rule 5’s, free agents, draft picks,
couple of no-hit speed merchants
and a bunch of Punch-and-Judy hitters.
The calendar flips to the dog days of June, it gets hotter and the road trips get longer,
can the young arms hold up?
Lots of unknowns before they head north.
It looks like the Big Piece can’t hit
for power anymore.
Year dawns. Spring beckons Players to the desert
To begin the journey once again. What glories,
What tragedies await, the heart does not know.
It is the story that weaves its way through
The spring and summer months and if fortune,
The Gods, and the strain of blood and muscle favours,
One will see October from the dugout and from the stands.
Those hopes born in the fresh and newly sown
Green Grass of Spring. The Desert gives hope and life
To such dreams. Many of them will dissipate as the
Weather grows warmer in the North but early in the
Desert there are more than enough dreams to go around.
On every tree, the branches bare
No leaves, no green, no life shows there.
Every building in my sad town
Wears a snowy, slushy crown.
I know beneath the snow and cold
The earth lies dormant, patient, bold.
How I long for Spring’s arrival
and a spiritual revival.
Few sights can make you feel so grand
As the first flower to make a stand.
Nor are there words that sound so sweet
as “pitchers and catchers report this week.”
This poem originally appeared on Susan’s Indians website, It’s Pronounced Lajaway.