Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
This is the saga of Battlin’ Mike Barrett,
A tiger of a man with fists of ore.
He’d raise his dukes and take on all comers,
Regardless the color of jersey they wore.
His mighty hands landed many a blow.
He never backed down from a brawl.
But such hardened paws don’t do you much good
When your job’s to be fielding the ball.
Posted 6/14/07.
by James Finn Garner
I called it years ago.
What I called is
that you’re going to see
more
black faces, but there ain’t no English
going to be
coming out. …
[It’s about]
being able to tell
[Latin players]
what to do —
being able to
control
them.
You might get a guy to do it that way
for a while
because he wants to benefit,
but in the end, he is going to go back
to being
who he is.
And that’s
a person that
you’re going to talk to
with respect,
you’re going to talk to
like a man.
These are the things my race demands.
So, if you’re equally good as this Latin player,
guess who’s going to get sent home?
I know a lot of players
that are home now
can outplay
a lot of these guys.
From an interview in GQ Magazine, June 2007
As I sat in Section 660
Above the field where Gehrig trod,
I cursed the Yankees’ inept play
And muttered grudging praise to A-Rod.
Then a booming voice erupted,
Rattling beams and shaking sod.
Had sanity up and left me?
Or did I just hear the voice of God?
All eyes sought out the owner’s box
Where George S. kept his shrimp-stuffed bod.
What revelation would be uttered that
Had this crowd’s undies in a wad?
There stood Rocket Roger to declaim
(Feel free whenever to applaud)
That he’d weighed golf versus sleeping late,
And deigned to give the Yanks the nod.
“Hooray!” bellowed the drunken crowd,
Mouths agape like fresh-caught cod.
Yet I sat there with no response,
Unmoved, unsure, ungaped, unawed.
The feeling grew within me
With more than one fantod,
That this mercenary egomaniac
Wouldn’t rescue this year’s squad.
He’d win a game or three and show
His skills were not a fraud,
Then retire again, then change his mind,
A greedy, charmless, pumped-up clod.
Though many things, George S. is not
A cowardly tightwad,
But bills come due. Next year our costs
Will feel quite like a doctor’s prod.
by James Finn Garner
Now, everyone knows it’s legit
When Barry Bonds strokes out a hit.
It ain’t no shot in the rear
With the cream or the clear.
It’ s…genes and….hard work and…like, that shit.
by James Finn Garner and Stu Shea
Bud Selig won’t say if he’ll go
When Bonds has his really big show
And sets the new mark
For hits out of the park,
‘Cuz the commish ain’t a man to eat crow.