Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
A voice, clear-channel, fills the Midwestern night
As a teenager listens in bed.
Pete, Doggie, Griffey, Little Joe,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The young man, driving back from work,
World Series dreams in his head.
Soto, Rijo, Sabo, Larkin,
“And this one belongs to the Reds!”
The Reds collapsed, immortals gone,
Votto and Gray in their stead.
Nearly 50 years on, Marty is gone. . .
This one belonged to the Reds.
Everyone has theories
About why this World Series
Is packed with non-stop offense—
“The baseballs are slick
The pitchers can’t stick
Their nails into their surface.”
We know that these hitters
Don’t get the jitters
And can deal with sophisto defense—
They just loft the ball
Right over the wall
And make all the pitchers nerface.
What’s happening to those Brewers?
To those blue, gray, and pee-yellow Crewers?
As the Cubs make the plays,
All Milwaukee now prays
Their year doesn’t go straight down the sewers.
Mr. Scully hangs up his microphone,
Dick Enberg does as well.
Bill Brown retires from Houston’s booth,
Ain’t it the truth–
Things ain’t like they used to be.
Things ain’t like they used to sound.
The men who call the games
Don’t have the varied background
Of the older famous names.
Oh, the older famous names,
With their gravitas and experience,
They understand the common sense
Of silence.
Now they’ll be silent forevermore,
Closing the door
On a time and a style that will never return.
Shooting stars are meant to fall
Whether in view or hidden,
It’s always such a shock to us
When, seemingly unbidden,
One does,
Just because.