Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Nyjer Morgan? What a jerk,
Putting catchers out of work.
Doesn’t get on base a lot,
Doesn’t use the speed he’s got.
Doesn’t understand the game,
Hasn’t got an ounce of shame,
Fighting with obnoxious fans,
Tossing baseballs in the stands.
The silver lining to this song?
He won’t be here for very long.
By Stuart Shea
.
K-Rod, relief ace,
Why smash your father-in-law in the face?
3 Mil down the drain,
And you won’t ever pitch for the Mets again.
K-Rod, bad thumb,
Going to court when the surgery’s done.
You didn’t bend–only break,
And your life has changed from one mistake.
“It was a warm day in August when history was made,
And the fans in the boxes were looking for shade.
The bases were loaded, it was the last inning.
From the sound of the crowd, you knew we weren’t winning.
When out of the dugout came No. 3,
The last hope for the Twins it was sure to be.
Now legend tells of Casey at the bat,
But today it was the Killer who tipped his hat.
Cursing and swearing came from the stands,
When Harmon was waved back by Rigney’s hand.
An astonishing look came over the Brew’s face,
When Rigney said, ‘Manuel is taking your place.’
A disbelieving look as he turned around,
Placed his bat in the rack without a sound.
Then from the bench came No. 9,
Who’d been warming the pine for a long, long time.
As he stepped from the dugout came a yell from the stands,
‘You can’t hit Manuel, the Killer’s our man.’
Never before in history had they pinch hit for the Brew,
Especially with some hillbilly hitting .182.
This was a mockery, a dirty rotten shame,
To pinch hit for a man who’s a sure Hall of Fame.
But Charlie heard not a word as he strode to the plate.
He only noticed the crowd’s eyes; they were filled with hate.
‘God, help me this one time,’ kept going through his mind.
‘If I ever get a hit, let it be this time.’
Jim Palmer looked in and thought, ‘This should be a cinch,
I’ll throw three by this rider of the bench.’
Down came the ball with a little white glare,
As Manuel stood watching for he knew it was there.
‘Strike one,’ came the call from the man in blue,
And four pitches later it was 3 and 2.
Now everything rode on the very last pitch.
Would Charlie stay a poor boy or would he suddenly be rich?
The crack of the bat and a long drive to right,
The back of Blair’s uniform is the only thing in sight.
The roar from the stands gave a deafening scream…
Then Charlie fell out of bed, it was only a dream.”
From the Cleveland Indians website 2000. Copyright c by Charlie Manuel. Discovered on the Baseball Almanac website.
Posted 7/22/2010
by Ron Kaplan
.
With apologies to Franklin Pierce Adams on the 100th anniversary of his original poem
These are the saddest words Mets fans could hear:
Ollie (Martinez) Perez.
Walking the enemy year after year:
Ollie (Martinez) Perez.
Taking his time as he misses his pitches,
Giving up homers to those sons of bitches,
All during which we don’t know where his brain is:
Ollie (Martinez) Perez.
.
Ron Kaplan is the features and sports editor of a New Jersey newspaper, and also runs Ron Kaplan’s Baseball Bookshelf, which is a must-read.
Posted 7/12/10
By Joe Moag
Unto He!
Unto He, the new rookie,
He with an arm fit to hoist Zeus’ bolt,
Fit to slay our past; fit to redeem our degradations.
Unto He, our welcomed savior!
A reprieve from years of ill, from years of doubt,
From years of lowness.
Unto He, the Lifter!
Unto He, the Changer!
Unto He, the Future!
Unto He, Alleviator of this state
Of prolonged exile, of overdue vengeance,
Of our just and righteous payback!
Unto He we place this proof
That our faith, traveled across orphanage and dismissal,
Our Faith, that thing
Which steeled our resolve
To simply stay in the game long enough,
Has borne fruit! It has brought
Him, here, to Us.
No light as bright as this has ever shone, only to
Fall away in wreckage through the dimming of life’s cold onslaughts and hurly-burl!
Immortals don’t flinch, or suffer, or miss their mark – they shine!
Our wait itself is the toil and testament to the surety of this!
This Game and its Gods, who sit high and low,
Sworn sacred to the mischief in their souls
Could never be jealous enough
To make this foreseen future, this deserved fate,
Fall short.
Posted 6/27/10