by Stuart Shea
It’s been a rough stretch for the Pale Hose,
A title expected by friends and foes.
The thing to do, fast,
Is to write off the past
And send off Big T for a nice doze.
September Baseball
By Stuart Shea
There is no clock.
The games could last forever,
Even as September suns sink sooner every day.
This is suspended-animation baseball time.
If a team is 30 out, and nobody watches,
Did the game even happen?
Maybe only in your mind,
But this is the best place for a baseball game anyway.
Cups of coffee and last gasps,
Careers come and go in a flash,
Before the eyes of the true devotees,
Miles from a pennant race.
.
Originally posted 9/28/2009
Red Barber in the Bowl
by Stuart Shea
From the Cincinnati Times-Star, 1937, on announcer Red Barber’s consistent hawking of Wheaties cereal:
Red Barber has charm and he shows it,
And over the air he sure throws it–
But with all his entreaties
To munch those damned Wheaties
He eats ham and eggs and he knows it!
Is It On–Is It Off?
by Stuart Shea
As of now, it’s later, but not never.
As of tomorrow, will it be soon, if ever?
Last week, it was yes, then maybe…
For dinner, who’d get the gravy?
But now, knives are sheathed,
A 60-game season bequeathed–
For now.
But even if there’s no game
Because of this global virus,
It’s nice that players and owners
Aren’t snarling and fighting like Tyrus.
For Bart Johnson
by Stuart Shea
It can take a lifetime
To control your gift:
A paintbrush, a mind, a fastball.
(Long after the attention fades,
You go on.
And on, and on,
Working your way through the jungle
With a butter knife,
Trying to figure out why the hell you’re here.)
Even at the top,
There are peaks to scale,
Before spring to past fall.
But once you’ve laid down the tools,
You can sigh and smile
Until last call.
Former White Sox pitcher, scout Bart Johnson Dies–Chicago Tribune