by Patrick McCaughey
He was asked what he did in winter,
And he answered. But here’s the thing.
You know what I’m doing this summer?
I stare out the window and wait for spring.
Dock Ellis & the LSD No-No
Produced by No Mas, Animated by James Blagdon
A Game of Pinches
by Michael X. Ferraro
All of the Phils and Marlins hurlers
Could have worn Dock Ellis’ curlers
In this game because not one batted
And thus were not protective(ly) hatted.
Marlins’ Mattingly Calls for September Roster Reform After Bizarre Record Set
Winners and Loaizas
by Hilary Barta
News Item: Former All-Star Estaban Loaiza To Plead Guilty in Felony Drug Case
An ex-pitcher arrested for coke
Once was rich, but confesses he’s broke
Played a sport with the skill
To earn 43 mill
Life’s a bitch; so invest, you jamoke.
The Crack of the Bat
by Dick Roraback
Away on this side of the ocean
When the chestnuts are hinting of green
And the first of the café commandos
Are moving outside for a fine
And the sound of spring beats a bolero
As Paree sheds her coat and her hat
The sound that is missed more than any
Is the sound of the crack of a bat.
There’s an animal kind of a feeling
There’s a stirring down at Vincennes Zoo
And the kid down the hall’s getting restless
Taking stairs like a young kangaroo
Now the dandy is walking his poodle
And the concierge sunning her cat
But the heart’s with the Cubs and the Tigers
And the sound of the crack of a bat.
In the park on the corner run schoolboys
With a couple of cartons for props
Kicking goals à la Fontaine or Kopa
While a little guy chickies for cops
“Goal for us,” “No it’s not,” “You’re a liar,”
Then the classical shrieks of a spat
But it’s not like a rhubarb at home plate
Or the sound of the crack of a bat.
Here the stadia thrill to the scrumdowns
And the soccer fans flock to the games
And the chic punt the nags out at Longchamp
Where the women are dames and not dames
But it’s different at Forbes and at Griffith
The homes of the Buc and the Nat
Where the hotdog and peanut share laurels
With the sound of the crack of a bat.
No, a Yank can’t describe to a Frenchman
The rasp of an umpire’s call
The continuing charms of statistics
Changing hist’ry with each strike and ball
Nor the self-conscious jog of the slugger
Rounding third with the tip of his hat
Nor the half-smothered grace of a hook slide
Nor the sound of the crack of a bat.
Now the golfer is buffing his niblick
And the tennis buff’s tightening his strings
And the fisherman’s flexing his flyrod
Like a thousand and one other springs
Oh, the sports on both sides of the ocean
Have a great deal in common, at that
But the thing that’s not here
At this time of the year
Is the sound of the crack of a bat.
Journalist Dick Roraback was based in Paris as the sports editor of the International Herald Tribune from 1957 to 1972. That publication reprints this poem every year around Opening Day. Thanks to Terry Cannon of the Baseball Reliquary for sending it to us.