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


Say Goodbye to These Retirees

by James Finn Garner

As the leaves turn from green to brown
And we rekindle antipathy for Joe Buck
Let’s recall players whose careers are done
And their stories of drive and hope and luck.

Jered Weaver, strikeout ace,
Can now just putter around his place.

Atlanta’s Frenchy, Jeff Francouer
Will now as a TV color man tour.

SF fans can thank Matt Cain
For embiggening the Jints again.

Likewise, Ryan Vogelsong
Can practice bird calls all day long.

Joe Nathan will have to find his thrill
Somewhere other than the bullpen hill.

And Nick Swisher, quintessential bro,
Will just leave a trail of grit where’er he goes.

To these and all other retirees
Thank you for the thrilling years.
Now, with us, relax near the TV,
Watch some playoff ball and enjoy some beers.

 



Requiem for the Giants’ 2017 Season

by the Village Elliott

Last Jints game of season,
One far less than pleasin’
With my cat, listen to game at home.
In this year of duress
Think it’s best I address
Feelings of this lost season in poem.

What happened to Giants
Defies BASEBALL science,
At least baseball science I know.
Headlines writ, couldn’t predict,
Absolute Throne’s edict:
“By Imperial ‘We’: Jints Shall Blow!”

(In case you’re confused,
Only three persons used
“The Imperial We,” Mark Twain said:
Absolutes in their realm,
Editors at the helm,
And those people with lice on their head!)

Since ’09, Jints’ best run:
Next eight years, three Crowns won–
Ninth year, pay butcher’s bill overdue.
It’s the stark final act
Of team’s Faustian pact,
Signed when offered, like most all would do.

Giants under-performed,
Strickland threw, Harper stormed,
I consider Jint’s Pitch-of-the-Year
Moore’s “Little League Double,”
Peaked “Jints’ Year of Trouble,”
Same game Buster’s beaned, since…it’s unclear.

Best position this year
Is at backstop, that’s clear,
Backup Hundley deserved “Willie Mac,”
And though Posey well hit
Power stroke went to shit.
Buster needs Nick to re-up and come back.

Backstops dinged up each game.
Soon they aren’t quite the same,
And we know, catcher’s hands first to go.
Hadley threw, Cochrane’s bumped,
“Iron Mike” quickly slumped,
Never was quite the same in the Show.

Too many got old,
Couldn’t be traded or sold,
Some hung on long past time to let go.
Few times team had hot spurt,
Shot when one hot got hurt,
No one picked up slack, down went the Show.

Team’s defense proved porous,
Outfield naught but tsuris,
Even Crawford’s play appeared unsteady.
Farm hands got their chance,
Called up to Big Dance,
They got hurt or showed they weren’t ready.

Starting pitchers, team’s strength
Thin in stretch, without length,
Bullpen overtaxed, oft over-ruled.
Belt’s, Panik’s concussion,
Hunts year-long discussion:
This Hot Stove, how are Giants retooled?

How will team be remade?
Sign free agents? Big trade?
Who will be on the roster next year?
Crawford, Mad Bum, Posey
Are “Untouchable Three,”
Still, one hundred games lost, nothing’s clear…

Holy shit, season ends
With blast Prodigal sends
To same place Pablo blasted Verlander.
With Friday’s game seized,
Matt Cain’s last start stress,
Panda provides poetic year-ender.

Thus ends “Season of Woe,”
Need break from Giant show,
Team is dead, no live games: Third and King;*
Still more likely than not,
Ere my cold stove gets hot,
I’ll be in training long before spring.

PS:

MVPs of Jints’ year
Are to me these four here:
Broadcasters Miller, Kruke, Kuip and Flem.
Kept me fully engaged,
All year channeled my rage,
I might have disengaged, but for them.

 

______________

* If Elwood Blues moved to San Francisco, California Nazis would look for him at the Willie Mays Statue located at the intersection of Third and King, the location AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.

In the Giants honor, when the city erected the statue of at the Park’s front entrance, they renamed it 24 Willie Mays Plaza.

 



Would Triples Still Go There to Die?

by the Village Elliott

Here at Jints’ game I had this thought,
When “can of corn” in sun-field’s caught:
When Giants moved to Candlestick,
The Senior Circuit feared Mays’ stick,
Knew “Say Hey” was the only guy
Whose triples fell where others’ died;
In basket-web of Willie’s glove,
By Grace of sweet Talullah’s love.

But, if Mays played at ATT,
Just how great would his career be
While patrolling Triples Alley
To left-center’s deep Death Valley?
Would triples still go there to die?
What reason is there to deny,
That to these fans now sitting here
Willie is worth more here each year?

 



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.

 

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