Southpaws on Parade

by Todd Herges

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Quick trips up are saved,

or so it is said,

for lefties who hit with good pow’r;

the finest of gems

scouts try hard to mine 

are sinister live-armed hurlers.

 

Oh-nine is the year

these truths can be seen

on both of the teams still alive.

 

For while Pujols is great

and Vlad’s bat can’t wait

they stand in the box close to third;

while Lincecum’s crazed

and Beckett is made

They’re now taking showers at home.

 

The teams that are left

are those who chose best,

hitched wagons to maladroit men.

 

Howard, Hideki,

Damon and Utley,

on demand can take the ball yard;

Cliff Lee and C.C.,

Cole Hamels, Andy,

quite clearly show that they’ve got game.

 

So now we are left

to watch quite impressed

A southpaw-filled Classic on Fox.

 

(The lefthanders playing in the World Series this year are:  pitchers Phil Coke, Damaso Marte, Andy Pettitte, CC Sabbathia, Antonio Bastardo, Scott Eyre, Cole Hamels, A.J. Happ, and Cliff Lee; hitters Robinson Cano, Johnny Damon, Brett Gardner, Eric Hinske, Hideki Matsui, Paul Bako, Greg Dobbs; Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, Raul Ibanez, Matt Stairs; plus switch hitters Melky Cabrera, Nick Swisher, Mark Teixeira, Jorge Posada, Jimmy Rollins and Shane Victorino.  Twenty-six men. Over half of the two combined rosters.  Juuust a bit outside the “normal” distribution of lefties among the general public.)

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Posted 11/2/2009

The Ballad of Susan Finkelstein

by James Finn Garner

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The girl had “Phillie Fever”,
A massive fall attack.
The only cure required her
To lay down on her back.

To nab a pair of tickets,
What must a clever girl do?
A “Dirty Utley”?  “Around the Lidge”?
A “Hamels Camel” or two?

But the cops horned in, and now her pic’s
Been spread across the nation.
Next time, p’raps, she first should try
Some Manuel stimulation.

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Posted 10/29/2009

Homer in the Ninth

by Todd Herges

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From the Ninth Book of Homer’s Odyssey         

(Lines 101-112, as translated by J. W. MACKAIL, c. 1905)                                                           

 

Then for a while, as long as morn was grey,            

And through the increase of the sacred day,             

Against them, though they far outnumbered us,       

We held our ground and kept in our array.               

 

But at the hour of the descending sun,                      

When from the plough the oxen are undone,            

Back the Ciconians drove the Achaean host             

And broke them, that escape we hardly won            

 

From death and doom:  but of my mail-clad host     

Six from each ship lay dead upon the coast.             

Thence we sailed on, escaping glad from death,       

Yet heart-sore for the comrades we had lost.            

                                                                                

 

Homer in the Ninth

 

Then for a while, as they in travel gray,

And through the weather of the autumn day,

Against them, though their fan base outsized ours,

We held our ground and kept L.A. at bay.

 

Long past the hour of the descending sun,

When from the beer the vendors are undone,

Back the Angelenos drove Manuel’s men

And broke them, that escape we hand’ly won

 

From season’s end:  beat’n by the red-clad host

The Dodger team lay dead upon our coast.

Thence we moved on, escaping glad from death,

Yet thankful Ryan Howard gives his most.

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Posted 10/22/2009

Ten Little Indians (And Counting)

by James Finn Garner
Ten little Indians–
Contenders every time!
One gets dealt for spending cash,
Now there’s only nine.

Nine little Indians
Playing by the lake.
One’s worth five Dominican catchers.
Now there’s only eight.

Eight little Indians
Hoping they can score.
Half are waived without a claim.
Now there’s only four.

Four little Indians.
At least they have Cliff Lee.
Ooops! Lee’s been swapped to Philly.
Now there’s only three.

Three little Indians
(Not counting Chief Wahoo).
“This is a rebuilding year.”
Now there’s only two.

Two little Indians.
How can they score a run?
One quits to become a fully trained self-employed professional health care technician.
Now there’s only one.

One little Indian.
What an awful pity
If he had to pack his bags
For Oklahoma City.

 Published 8/13/09

Vaya Con Dios, Bazardo

by James Finn Garner

Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo,
Batters with hits your field did bombard-o,
Yorman, my man, hits the boulevard-o,
Cut by the Phils with flip disregard-o.

Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo,
Though scratched from the Tigers’ and Phillies’ scorecard-o,
I hope you retain your own self-regard-o
And don’t mope and think you’re somehow ill-starred-o,
Or drown your sorrows in amontillado,
Or vanish from sight, incommunicado.

Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo, Bazardo,
While no setback leaves a person unscarred-o,
Don’t think yourself with failure much tarred-o,
Or believe that old “washed up” canard-o,
Because at least to the baseball ‘ficionado,
You gave us the chance to holler

“BAZARDO!”

For an earlier poem about Yorman Bazardo, click here.

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Posted 4/30/09