Pedro had no illusions—
He just hated your guts
if you had a different color uniform.
Nolan Ryan didn’t care if
his 98 MPH fastball hit
a hip, arm, or leg.
Charge the mound for respect?
Next inning?
More chin music…
A nuanced, non-written
rule of the
National Pastime.
A former collegiate offensive lineman and football coach, Dan Provost’s poetry has been published in many print and online magazines. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura, and dog, Bella.
You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?
Once again, I must report
COVID-19 is like Bob Gibson
Pitching for the Cardinals in ‘68
But with better run support.
A weekend Cubs-Cards confrontation
Has been sidelined by the virus
For some reason, big-league baseball
Believes it somehow can avoid contagion.
There’s one category of which I know
That the Cards lead all of MLB
Truly noteworthy: consecutive games
Cancelled — they have 13 in a row.
That number could change any day now
While Commissioner Rob Manfred
And friends try to figure out
A way to get through this somehow.
It’s enough to make a Cards fan holler
While other teams play contests
In empty stadiums while they can,
As owners pursue TV’s postseason dollar.
I have this terrible sense of dread
That baseball will continue to play on
In its battle with the coronavirus
And will not halt until a player is dead.
Elliott Harris is a lifelong baseball fan old enough to have put 1950s baseball cards in the spokes of his bicycle. Among other things, he was the “Quicks Hits” columnist for the Chicago Sun-Times until 2011, when he was placed on the involuntarily retired list.
