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.

 

Snuck into Night Games to See Home Run Derbies Vs. LA Angels Bulky Steve Bilko

by Gerard Sarnat, MD

There are two kinds of light: glow that illumines and glare that obscures.
— James Thurber

Once Hollywood Star Minor League baseball ballplayer’s feet of clay.
Spoofing calls, false wet signatures, our guilty dog barks the loudest.
Toothless guy with tobacco juice dribbling down each double chin.
Avowed eyeglass lenses thick as bottom of some old Coke bottle.

Hometown heroes as super-villains tend to weather storms.
Cloudy undergraduate eleven-year plan, dishwasher blahs
— black helicopters land backyard next to my clown car.
That’s in 1953, the year .213 hitting Señor Outfielder

played his only full season in the Majors with
last-place Pittsburgh Pirates after The Mick
hit a 500-foot home run landed on Forbes
Field’s roof during an exhibition game.

Bernier fell on dark times later in life.
Homeless near the end, he was found
dead in a garage the result of suicide
autopsy ascribed to strangulation.

Twenty-nine years this month
since Carlos bit proverbial
dust, after his sad hanging
may he now rest in peace.

 

A Staff for All Seasons

By Jim Siergey

When wintry winds cause batsmen
All to whiff and to wail,
They’re laughed off by a moundsman
Whose name is Rich Gale.

While batters may wish it were dry
And comfortably warm,
The winds won’t bother a Davis
With a first name like Storm.

When the field becomes mired
In a swampy wet bog
And the sky is grayed o’er,
Make the call to Josh Fogg.

If the weather gets so bad
Fans all need to take cover,
You need a staff with Jim Coates
And, of course, Gary Glover.

 

Say Goodbye to These Retirees

by James Finn Garner

As the leaves turn from green to brown
And we rekindle antipathy for Joe Buck
Let’s recall players whose careers are done
And their stories of drive and hope and luck.

Jered Weaver, strikeout ace,
Can now just putter around his place.

Atlanta’s Frenchy, Jeff Francouer
Will now as a TV color man tour.

SF fans can thank Matt Cain
For embiggening the Jints again.

Likewise, Ryan Vogelsong
Can practice bird calls all day long.

Joe Nathan will have to find his thrill
Somewhere other than the bullpen hill.

And Nick Swisher, quintessential bro,
Will just leave a trail of grit where’er he goes.

To these and all other retirees
Thank you for the thrilling years.
Now, with us, relax near the TV,
Watch some playoff ball and enjoy some beers.

 

I Am Some Body!

by Jim Siergey

O, how I wish Destiny put
As catcher, one day, Barry Foote
While on the mound lands
The hurler Bill Hands
I’d pay an arm and a leg to see that

The bullpen is aptly in place
With perfectly named Elroy Face
As one last zinger
We add Rollie Fingers
With Heinie Manush up to bat

As he comes to the plate, there’s a buzz,
The one man with the name to give pause,
Each syllable clear-
Ly a body part dear:
Here comes man-of-parts Tony Armas!