Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Chicago Cubs
Inside the outfield,
Autumn dream: A Belli dance.
Will it or won’t it?
Cincinnati Reds
Too many men to
Plow the field and not enough
Men to throw the dirt.
Milwaukee Brewers
Blue and golden hop(e)s,
I thought it was still summer—
Then the brew went flat.
Pittsburgh Pirates
Fording three rivers,
Seedy types in fancy suits
Trawl for cheap assets.
St. Louis Cardinals
Spring rain’s mire will tell
Whether the wheels are still good
Or are falling off.
I want to see if the poet
is going to have me speak in dialect
as the sportswriters of my day did;
I spoke English better than they
spoke another language, and sometimes
even better than they spoke English
The great thing about baseball
is that your ability speaks for itself,
it’s not dependent on how someone else
chooses to portray you
And it also allowed me to do things
for other people, one of our reasons for being
When I played,
my claim to fame was stealing bases;
I even patented sliding pads
Later,
when I was involved in the girls’ game,
I winced every time a player
had to slide in those skirts
We should have let them wear baseball pants
The burden of hard hitting. Slug away
.  Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
Else fandom shouteth: “Who said you could play?
.  Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!”
.  Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job.
Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom’s ire
.  Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.
.  Or in or out, or haply up or down,
To puzzle him that standeth by the plate,
.  To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown:
.  Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown,
So pitch that every man can but admire
.  And offer you the freedom of the town –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds!
.  The tumult and the shouting from the throats
Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds
.  Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats.
.  A mighty cheer that possibly denotes
That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire;
.  Or, as H. James would say, We’ve got their goats –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of a pennant. O the hope,
.  The tenuous hope, the hope that’s half a fear,
The lengthy season and the boundless dope,
.  And the bromidic, “Wait until next year.”
.  O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,
O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher
.  That next October it shall flutter here:
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
ENVOY
Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase
.  Be that to which most fondly we aspire!
For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race –
.  THIS is the end of every fan’s desire.