Posted on

Halladay – Lee

by Cormican

In the euphoria of the NLCS, this Phillies fan contemplated a pitching duel for the ages and channeled the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe for this poem.  Alas, the matchup wasn’t meant to be, which adds the appropriate amount of heartbreak to this homage to Poe.

It was many and many a month ago
.   In a ballpark in NYC
That an Ace there pitched so nonchalant
.   That caught pop-ups non-chalantly

He was an ace and Doc was an Ace
.  at this ballpark in South Philly
Dare we dream of a game that is more than a game
.  One with Halladay – Lee
With an arm that the horned demons in Bronx
.  Coveted Clifton P. Lee

And this was the reason that, months ago
.  In this ballpark in South Philly
A smug came out, refurbished the farm
.  by trading our Clifton P. Lee
So that our deep pocket neighbors can
.  can sign him from SEA
To set him up with Sabbathia
.  In their kingdom in NYC

The Rangers, not half as blessed with pitching
.  Went trading with SEA for Lee
Yes, this was the season (as old men know,
.  for the team that was once from DC)
That the Doc came out of a cold north town
.  Starting and stopping their Clifton P. Lee

But their team it was far stronger than the teams
.  Of those with Chocolate Chili
.  Of those with Jerry Garci…
And neither the Angels in Los Angeles/Anaheim
.  Or the demons in Bronx, NYC
Can ever dissever Game one from Game one
.  ‘gainst Rangers,’gainst Yankees

For when a game starts, the players start winning my heart
.  Especially Halladay – Lee
Other stars will rise, but none, in my eyes
.  match the aces that this night I see
And so as the sun died, I sat down on my hide
With my Yuengling – my Riesling – my team and my bride
.  See the stadium in South Philly
.  In the glory of Halladay – Lee.

Found on the Phillies blog, The Good Phight.

Posted on

The Skeleton Rattles; The Muscles Hum

by Todd Herges

The approaches vary
and depend upon the man.

As each one rises
from the subterranean dugout lair
.     onto the field and
.     into the light
you feel his aging body ambulate;
sense his agile mind run through options.

The long walk to the mound a torture.

How many millions –
susceptible to the power of suggestion –
crack open a bottle of ibuprofen
every time Charlie saunters past the ump
and up onto that steep hill:
oh the tired sore legs; oh the aching back.
Slow and ponderous the stride, with smoothness
borne of painful experience.

How many millions reach for chondroitin
whenever Bruce toddles to home
for his double-switch notification,
touching his arm before he’s taken two steps
with subconscious hope that the reliever
will beat him to the mound and take the ball
directly from the predecessor.
Slow and rickety-stiff, with youthfulness
bound in his body like a Gulliver.

Yes Bochy’s bones and Manuel’s muscles
are there for all to see
on the great pennant stage Twenty Ten:
Bruce wants bad to keep walking;
Charlie to do it again.

Posted on

The Ballad of Roy Halladay

by James Finn Garner

Oh what a day
For Roy Halladay!
Just one pitch away
From perfect play!

He left the Reds
Shaking their heads,
Like walking dead,
longing for bed.

And Carlos Ruiz
From his knees,
If you please,
Tossed the last out 2-3.

Painting corners four
Like Benjamin Moore (TM),
Doc slammed the door
On the Redleg corps.

What might come next
Is anyone’s guess.
Doc seems untaxed–
Are THREE no-nos too much to ask?

Posted on

Johnny Rosenblatt

by Todd Herges

An ode to shuttered baseball parks.  For info on Johnny Rosenblatt Stadium, please check the comments thread below.

And here’s to you, Boston’s Fenway Park,
Jesus loves you more than you will know — wo, wo, wo.
God bless you please, windy Wrigley Field,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray.
Hey, you’re all that remain.

We’d like to know a little bit about old stadia,
We’d like to help you keep some memories.
Look around you, all you see are old angelic eyes.
Strolling hallowed grounds of New York’s Polo Grounds.

And here’s to you, Jackie Robinson,
Ebbets Field saw fans who open grew — woo, woo, woo.
God bless you please, Jackie Robinson,
Brooklyn holds a place for those who played
Hey, hey, hey … hey, hey, hey.

Now so many places live where no one ever goes:
Shea, the Vet, Three Rivers and Candlestick.
It’s no shock Olympic Stadium’s no longer used.
Bigger surprise the House Ruth Built is gone now.

Coo, coo, ca-choo, all old stadia
We remember more than you will know — wo, wo, wo.
God bless you please, Houston Astrodome,
We remember Bad News Bears’ clutch play
Hey, hey, hey … hey, hey, hey.

Sitting in the bleachers on a Sunday afternoon,
Going to a big late-season day game.
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you’ve got to choose
Ev’ry way you look at it, you lose.

Where have you gone N. C. Double A
A nation turns its hungry eyes to you — woo, woo, woo.
What’s that you say, President Myles Brand?
Rosenblatt has left and gone away!
Hey, hey, hey … hey, hey, hey.

Posted 9/7/10

Posted on

My Most Memorable Day

by Charlie Manuel

“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