Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
By Stuart Shea
BALTIMORE ORIOLES
Talented groundhogs
Trying to burrow through a
two-layer brick wall.
BOSTON RED SOX
Deep at every spot.
Not young at any of them,
Must win now or else.
NEW YORK YANKEES
E. Chavez is “back”!
Well, that’s a strange way to say
That he feels “healthy.”
TAMPA BAY RAYS
Damon? Ramirez?
It all depends what kind of
leadership you want.
TORONTO BLUE JAYS
Latinos can get
Good job opportunities
North of the border.
Been an Astro for so long,
Got the gong,
Here’s your song:
Bye, bye, Berkman.
Master of the hard line drive,
You’re 35?
What’s that jive?
Bye, bye, Berkman.
When Ed Wade shipped your contract to the Yankees last July,
You didn’t know it wasn’t “come on back,” but just “goodbye.”
The hourglass is losing sand.
Will you land
In Japan?
Bye, bye, Berkman.
Last month, the third- and fourth-graders at Commodore Sloat Elementary School in San Francisco wrote some poems to honor their hometown heroes, now world champions. Here are a few of them, as reported at SFGate.com:
It’s a Splash Hit
It’s Barry Zito hitting
home runs to the crowd.
Next up—Freddy Sanchez!
Crowd goes wild. Freddy hits the ball high flying
up, up, up—it’s out of the park.
It’s a splash hit!
Home Team’s the winner.
-Alden Cheang, 4th grade
Orange Baseball Caps
It’s a hard baseball of
calm robins dancing.
It’s sweet sugary lemonade.
It’s an excited catcher,
Buster Posey, throwing
apples, stars, and
orange baseball caps.
-Jun Chan, 3rd grade
I Am the Father of Huff’s Splash Hits
I am the father of Aubrey Huff’s splash hits.
I am the grandpa of Cody Ross’ RBI’s in game 5 of the NLCS.
I am the great grandpa of Andres Torres’ steals and doubles.
I am the great great grandpa of the Freak’s changeup.
I am the black, gold, and white home runs
of Buster Posey, Will Clark, Barry Bonds,
Willie Mays, and Juan Uribe.
All I know is I have
the best team in the world
because of Brian Wilson
getting to work at twilight
at Pacific Bell Park.
(Everyone
goes crazy when
he saves the game.)
-Sameer Mustafa, 4th grade
There They Go!
There they go up into
the sky—the orange and black
balls shoot up all over
the stars.
And there they go! Home
run! Crowd bursts into action.
I wish I were the steel bat
as it hits a home run.
There he goes—fast as lightning
and it’s a miracle he catches the ball.
There they go—howling, yelling,
roaring, too. That’s the crowd for you.
-Madison Chang, 4th grade
Flying Balls and Fans’ Calls
Flying balls and fans’ calls
and lots and lots of gulls
flying all over town
forming a giant crown
around San Francisco
creating a giant disco.
People dancing and
fans prancing’ trying
to get the ball—just
can’t get their fingers on it
because it’s too small
1st, 2nd, 3rd, home run!
The Giants beat them all,
nothing in the way,
the World Series just
two days away!
First Rays, then Braves,
Yippee! We beat them all!
There’s nothing better than
playing ball!
-Sawyer Dobson, 4th grade
New Planets
It’s a silver bat hitting a blue baseball
in the night sky while wolves awake
in hidden caves near the calm
Pacific Ocean filled with creatures
looking at the night sky
and the icy Milky Way
while scientists
seek new planets.
-Daniel Doan, 3rd grade
By Stuart Shea and James Finn Garner
Though dead four decades, ol’ Russ Hodges
Still figures in Jints’ reportage.
He and his “bye-bye baby” call
Haven’t faded from baseball at all.
When Pablo, Burrell, or Uribe
Leaves the yard for a splash in the Bay
Kuiper yells “HE HITS IT OUTTA HERE”
And each Giant fan lets out a cheer.
At the end of all innings with dongs,
They play the “Bye-Bye Baby” song.
And a piece of Russ Hodges lives on,
Even though Bobby Thomson’s now gone.
Posted 9/21/10
Wrap yourself in nostalgia’s blankets
it’s cold outside.
But even the blanket’s moth-eaten,
ragged with grief.
For today Tiger Stadium comes down.
*
Oh, the old green wooden seats
banging to start up a rally
Oh, the corrupt ushers
in their crooked ties
barking at kids sneaking down
to the good seats
Oh, the long urinal troughs in the men’s room
the line up of drunks and young boys on tiptoe
Oh, the bullpens along the baselines
watching the wonderfully evil Goose Gossage
warm up, the ball exploding in the catcher’s mitt.
Oh, the waxy plastic beer cups stacking up
beneath the bleacher benches
Oh, my three-year-old daughter in her sundress
smiling in her Tiger hat that last season, last game.
Michigan and Trumbull, Michigan and Trumbull.
Cochrane and Kaline, Cochrane and Kaline.
*
Oh, so you want me to wrap things up do you?
A game permanently shortened by rain.
Just remember stepping through shadows
up the narrow fenced ramp
into the upper deck
and into the explosion of sunshine on green grass.
Sunshine and green grass.
Squint and be a good boy.
Squint, and don’t cry.
Remember your first game ever
before anyone lied to you.
Let me call them out: Harmon Killebrew,
Boog Powell, Dick McAullife, #3,
with the stance of a mad scientist
trying to kill his creation.
Come on back for your cup of coffee
in the bigs, Purnell Goldy.
Come back for your one good season
Champ Summers. Let me say it again,
Champ Summers. Gates Brown.
Earl Wilson, the pitcher who pinch-hit,
Ron LeFlore, the ex-con. Jim Northrup,
grand-slam king. Bases loaded, dude.
Ray Oyler, come on back and crack .200.
Stormin’ Norman Cash come on back
and hit 361 again and show it was no fluke.
A high foul ball. A major league pop-up
and Freehan has the mask off, and Lance
Parrish has the mask off, and Mickey Cochrane
has the mask off.
Oh, big Frank Howard hitting one over the roof.
Oh, Dave Rozema karate-kicking his way
out of baseball just because he was young
and excitable.
Okay, Bird, I know you’ve been waiting,
come on back and tell the ball a few things
you forgot to say.
Bleachers or General Admission
Ladies/Retirees Day. Polish-
American Night.
50,000 kids with free bats bouncing them
off concrete. Bring back the father-son games
Charlie Dressen is my grandfather. Mayo Smith
my great uncle. Billy Martin the dark sheep.
Al Kaline, kind uncle. Gibby the cousin
the parents worried about.
Roll off the tarp, drag the infield.
Herbie do the Shuffle one more time
Bring back Jake Wood and Jerry Lumpe.
Mickey Lolich, come back in from the Donut Shop.
Denny McLain, come back from prison one last time.
*
Did I say I was going to stop? The rain’s letting up some.
The Orioles are in town with the Robinsons.
The Yanks are in town with Mantle and Maris
and did McLain really groove one to Mantle in ’68?
Just an organ in between innings.
No rock and roll scoreboard hi-jinks razzamatazz.
Ernie, take the mike.
We’ll all pull up a Stroh’s and stay awhile.
We’ll come down from Paradise to catch a foul ball.
Charlie Maxwell, come on back from Paw Paw.
It’s baseball. Nobody’s died. They’re all still alive.
Rust and cracks in memory’s stadium.
It didn’t have to be this way.
Trammell and Whitaker have one more double play
to turn.
Sock It to ’em Tigers.
Bless you, Boys.
I’m squinting into the sun.
All my life I’ve never seen such green.
Jim Daniels is a professor in the creative writing program at Carnegie Mellon University, and has written more than 25 books of poems and stories.