Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
We salute a skipper named Whitey
Who plugged in Vince and Willie and Ozzie
He saw defense and speed
Were St. Louis’ need
‘Twas Whiteyball made Whitey quite mighty.
“I came here in last place and I leave here in last place. I left them right where I started.” RIP to the White Rat.
As all us plebs pay the tax man,
You owners need to face some facts, man.
In suites with well-heeled sponsors and friends,
You claim your team pays civic dividends
Then you say you need new parks resplendent?
We fans should claim you as a dependent.
Taxes and slush are your basic income,
We ask for returns and you play dumb.
When voters at last come to their senses,
You scream and whine and talk moving expenses.
Pigs at the trough, courting our elected hoes —
Whatever way it’s adjusted is gross.
On the long, long IR line, of mostly
Pitchers early in the season,
You’re waiting to get into
MLB’s popular fragility club,
The club no one wants to join…
It’s your turn to flash the bouncer;
You show him your card with a picture —
It’s your elbow — and he looks,
Then declares: “What, another pitcher —
And a young one at that?” Then
He opines: “What’s with all you guys?”
You protest: “Hey, it’s not my fault.
Everyone’s always told me: Pitch harder,
Pitch faster — with more spin and torque!
I can’t help it if I’m young.” Words drift off.
The bouncer nods like a ballpark sage
Who’s seen it all, and thinks: “Don’t they
Know the human body has its limits,
Even when you’re young?”
But then he shrugs and lets you in.
the ledger of the sport that night
quiet and relentless
innings in other parks decided
three outs somehow made
if action here was lagging,
it was hopping somewhere else
and this wide network was tallied
with metal placards
slotted by men in shirtsleeves, sweating, smoking
Chesterfields and Old Golds
as advertised
and checking their watches
B-U-L-O-V-A
when the out-of-town games ended
east coast, then west coast,
the placards were put away
retiring like the faces of fans heading home
just as we would soon do
under the silent watchful eye of
Mr. Scoreboard
Sportsmen’s Park, St. Louis, July 20, 1951.