Browse all poems and songs in the 'San Francisco Giants' Category


Disparate Thoughts

by Jim Siergey

Did Vida Blue
ever pitch to
Dick Brown?

Did Bill White
ever fight
with Bud Black?

Was Dallas Green
ever mean
to Tyler Houston?

Did Mike Trout
ever dine out
with Tim Salmon?

Did Martinez, Carmelo
ever have Mark Lemongello
for dessert?

 



Harper/Strickland

by Stephen Jones

Baseball’s a game of skill;
That’s what we all know.
It’s not the NFL,
Where headhunting’s bought and sold.

But what about history
and baseball’s unwritten rule?
When a batter’s tagged a pitcher twice,
What’s a hurler to do?

As a sniper with a (maybe) grudge,
Hunter Strickland thought he had the pip:
He’d aim, then fire. He’d drill Bryce Harper
Dead-on in the hip,

And as Bryce Harper later said,
“At least he wasn’t aiming at my head”
(Although some medicos might concur:
His brains are definitely not up there).

No surprise, Harper charged the mound
And gave Strickland some punches.
Strickland obliged him back, and in the end
It was like a battle of dunces.

When the smoke clears, MLB will admister
Band-Aid punishment to fit the crime:
Each will pay a chunk of change
And probably serve some time.

Just don’t expect MLB
To solve its unseen baggage.
Afterall, like in hockey,
This stuff is good green cabbage.

 



September 23, 1908

by Laura Weck

In baseball, as it is in life,
Not always everything will stay the same–
Rules may change further down the road
As they could in a baseball game.

In life when you err, you may
at times find an atoner,
But not so with baseball
and “Fred Merkle’s Boner.”

Though there was great world news
Back in those days,
Nothing could overshadow
Poor Fred’s Bonehead play

That year was a roller-coaster
Predicting which of the teams might play
and that was only decided
On the season’s very last day.

That stellar season would provoke
Even Joe Tinker to rub,
“If you don’t furiously hate the Giants,
You aren’t really a Cub.”

After that year I can’t fathom
That ever again there will be
As thrilling a contest, as that on
September twenty-three.

It was the bottom of the ninth
The score tied one to one,
With Merkle standing at first
and anxious to run.

The Polo Ground fans were a rowdy bunch
Often storming the field
After a tumultous win, never imagining
Their team to another would yield.

New York’s Birdwell hit one
Allowing McCormick get home.
Rookie Merkle rounded second, then
To the clubhouse he’d roam.

The fans stormed the field not knowing
Johnny Evers had been guaranteed
A new rule that now
The players must heed.

The folks perched on poles
Came close to falling.
When New York got the loss
The fans started bawling.

They spat and they fought
When they learned of the loss.
So irate the ump, to the stands
The “winning” ball he’d toss.

In public they jeered him.
They told him he stank.
So distraught was Fred Merkle
His tombstone was left blank.

 



I Feel Pretty

by The Village Elliott

I feel pretty,
Not self-pity,
Feel like dancing from Jints’ week in town!
Don’t feel shitty
Like last weekend, when let my dauber down!

I feel pretty
Back in city
Jints play pretty and gritty and tight!
And I pity
Any fan of team not mine tonight!

I feel charming
Team’s disarming
How rearming up-daubered I feel!
From “Team’s shitty”
To “Maybe Giants are for real.”

See my city’s team in the ballpark there
Who can now-gritty Giants be?
Came home in last place
Road trip was mess
Home stand puts new smile
On old fans like me!

Team’s play stunning
Re-enchanting
From week winning with play team deploys,
I’m back in love
With this team of wonderful boys!

 



All-World Sage

by the Village Elliott

For Willie Mays, born 5/6/1931

Eighty-six years ago, sixth of May,
“Second Genius” kid reborn to play:
Willie Mays, baseball sage,
Struts on Bard’s All-World Stage,
Kid’s fans shout giant birthday “Say, Hey!”

 

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