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Casey At the Baton, or Pete Rosenkavalier

By Patrick McCaughey

Overture

Baseball and opera. Basses, runs, and what’s more —
They each need a pitch before there’s a score.

Act I

Why would anyone take an opera box? There
Are better ones at the stadium.
Instead of watch opera, I’d rather go hear
Brooklyn’s phone book read verbadium.

Act II

I know how to handle a one or two hoppera,
And that Sparky Lyle was a lights-out stoppera,
That Tampa Bay plays at the Tropera,
And that Yogi was a malapropera.
But I’m as far from getting opera
As Bangor is from Santa Bopera.

Intermezzo

The seventh inning stretch — baseball’s intermezzo.
How do I know? My scorecard sezzo.

Act III

The drama! The length! The Mets! And before
The weary trudge up the aisle, two more —
Be it Series or Nibelung they each have rings,
And neither one’s over ‘til the fat lady sings.

 

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LA-LA Bank Run

by Stephen Jones

What’s with the LA Dodgers?
Right now, they’re 12 and 17,
And 9 back of that “other” team.

While Arizona has all the numbers,
It seems LA’s gone bankrupt —
And nobody is stepping up.

 

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– finis –

by Millie Bovich

The Astros and the Dodgers were the Hatfields and McCoys,
And they battled on for seven games, those wild and scrappy boys.

And as the dust is settling with the Astros waiting rings,
The crowd erupts with cheering and the “you know” lady sings.

Now the well-worn mitts are on the shelf, the champagne warm and flat,
And “Astros Champs” emblazoned is on every this and that.

The bats are finally all in racks, the balls are all in bags,
The uniforms are cleaned and pressed, their player names on tags.

The scoreboard shows no numbers, the stats are all in books,
The vendors too have closed up shop, their aprons hang from hooks.

The managers are calm once more, the cleaned-up shoes in rows.
The game’s America’s pastime, that fact no one can oppose.

The towels are all washed and dried, the showers only drip,
The bat boys are all back in school, the umpires hear no lip.

The season’s been exciting, we’ve been taken to new heights
And will the last one out of the locker room, please — turn off — the lights!

 

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Off Season, On the Bright Side

by Hilary Barta

Goodbye pitches and homers well struck
So long switch-hits and gnome-beards for luck
No more blasts, no more clout
That’s the last, final out
It’s a bitch–but there’s no more Joe Buck.

 

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Series Unction

by Stuart Shea

Everyone has theories
About why this World Series
Is packed with non-stop offense—

“The baseballs are slick
The pitchers can’t stick
Their nails into their surface.”

We know that these hitters
Don’t get the jitters
And can deal with sophisto defense—

They just loft the ball
Right over the wall
And make all the pitchers nerface.