Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
First-ever pitch clock,
Elimination of the shift,
Pickoffs and “disengagement”
From the rubber
By the pitcher on the mound —
To name but a few of the new rules.
Sure I get it, MLB
Wants to attract new faces
And they figured it’s about time
To speed up the game …
But I still have trouble with the new bases.
They’re now the size of pizza boxes,
And I’m waiting for the moment,
That moment during a game,
When a hungry player on base
Tries to lift the lid.
Now that the Wild Card
Smoke has cleared
And my team has just lost,
There’s one that I’ve learned,
Something in my brain
Like a Pythagorean theorem:
“In the postseason war
There is a reason for
Pitching, pitching, pitching.
No matter how gaudy
Your at-bats have become,
There is a reason
You’ll always be undone:
Pitching, pitching, pitching.”
I count 61 home runs…
The number seems unfathomable…
And each one is unique, the way it
Travels like a laser or a moonshot,
And, for a moment, fills imagination
So completely that I never want the
Ball or player to touch the ground.
Despite four walks for Aaron Judge —
Even Toronto fans murmured disapproval;
They too wanted to see history made —
The Yankees still clinched the division.
Maybe now, with all that behind him,
Judge can now hit his 61.
Standing at the edge of a long, dusty road
I watched a procession slowly pass me by:
A peddler dressed in a motley of old and new
Followed by a patient, plodding mule
And a creaking, groaning two-wheel cart
Piled high with neatly stacked baseball bats.
The peddler, his face lined by many seasons,
Nodded to me, then jerked his thumb up
To a sign plain-as-day overhead.
I looked and read: “October Straight Ahead.”
Then he grinned — his eyes were bright as suns —
And signaled me to follow, and I did.