Browse all poems and songs in the 'Los Angeles Dodgers' Category

RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
knothole gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleachers seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet-swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame!  For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest In Peace Ebbets Field.
Rest In Peace Brooklyn Dodgers.


Good Hitting Pitchers

by the Village Elliott

A good-hitting pitcher will not sit
For a pinch hitter — wouldn’t think of it;
Some who’ve earned that respect,
For their teammates expect
He will help his own cause with a hit.

Bumgarner sure can hit, wield that bat,
Like Dons Robinson, Drysdale: out-flat;
Like Gibson, Big Daddy
Mad Bum needs no caddy,
Hear Don Newcombe was better than that.


Cubs 2, Dodgers 0

by Stephen Jones

Rough road trip complaints?
Just call Jake Arrieta.
The no-hitter cure.

Last Streakers

by the Village Elliott

S.F. Giants are streaky this year;
Spans where fans find little to cheer,
Then team’s offense revamps
And they look like World Champs.
Never know where next streak heads from here.

On Jints’ last road trips offense was hot,
But at home lately, offense is not.
With ninth loss in a row,
Tied schneid set long ago
In New York, with Manager Mel Ott.

“Master Melvin” team’s star recent past,
But as manager, Ott was miscast.
Said Bums’ skipper Leo,
“Mel’s nicest amigo,
But, you know that nice guys finish last.”



“Money Ball” MVP

by the Village Elliott

For Josh Donaldson

“Oh by golly, by gosh,
Why’d Beane have to trade Josh?”
Cried fan who’s an A’s East Bay mourner.
“He belongs with our A’s,
Not up north with the Jays,
There playing Toronto’s hot corner!
Now Josh Donaldson’s the
Presumptive MVP
Of the AL, at least he so plays;
While Beane signs bodies warm,
Without legs, hands or arm,
To play the hot corner for the A’s!”

Reckon my friend forgot
Billy owns part of pot,
Kind of like the Cards and Branch Rickey.*
Deal the A’s made with Beane
When the Red Sox seemed keen,
Suggesting Beane, like Rickey, is “tricky”;
Trading deadline is nigh.
Soon fans might say “goodbye”
To both Scott Kazmir and Sonny Gray,
For I doubt Beane forgot
Like Branch, his piece of pot
Is part of what makes Money Ball pay.

PS: Only took half a day
Till Beane traded away
Scott Kazmir, as we all knew he would,
In return, two unknowns
Causing more A’s fans’ groans,
Knowing these guys are gone if they’re good.

* When Branch Rickey and Cards,
Owned by Breadon, were pards,
Branch got a cut of each deal he made;
With his farm system flush,
Rickey deemed it a “rush,”
To sell players so he is well paid.
“The Pious Hypocrite”
In his office would sit,
Trade players, not year late, one early;
Rickey never looked back,
Busy counting his stack.
Others thought him impious and surly.

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.