Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Change-up, change-up.
He makes hitters clowns.
It floats to the plate
And it sits right down.
Change-up, change-up.
Off mediocre “heat,”
You feel real comfy,
But still you get beat.
I wonder if Hoffman
Throws change-ups in bed
Or if Mrs. Hoffman
Likes it “dead red.”
Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You are your own Bossage,
You have your own mitt that you sign and Embossage.
Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You always will Flossage,
Your round rolling stone will ne’er gather no Mossage.
Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
You boot up with DOSsage,
You always predict the results of coin Tossage.
Goose Gossage,
Goose Gossage,
Your car drives with Nossage,
And you play like you dance, like the winged Bob Fossage.
(Sandy’s site, with his comedy teammates: Schadenfreude.net)
Posted 8/3/07
When we heard of the death of The Shooter
We all grabbed a beer and a smoke…
And we toasted the long-ago memories
And the quick way he had with a joke.
He’s dead, just 38.
It makes no sense
To those of us here on the outside.
Why him? He seemed normal.
Never formal,
So unaffected by the fame
Of the great game,
But sometimes worlds don’t collide.
For some, there’s no life after baseball.
For some, there’s no way to adjust.
So he left his wife and two children
In a cloud of motorhome dust.
He’s dead, just 38.
He died alone
In Phoenix, for God’s sake.
It’s got to be a mistake.
Sure, he liked a beer and his cigarettes.
That was part of his character.
But beneath the veneer
Of that which is legal,
it all was much worse.
The curses
Of hard drugs and failure
Of arm injuries and rehab
Are tough on athletes
With nothing else to do.
You can’t fish all day.
You can’t drink beer all day.
But when you’re Rod Beck,
And the dream is gone,
What do you do with your time
But look for the next high
And kiss each day goodbye?