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


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!”

 



If I Told the Giants (What They Must Do…)

by the Village Elliott

Injuries are tearing the Jints apart
Doom best-laid plans their brain trust had conceived
Even attack Bruce Bochy’s broken heart
Stressed Brandon Crawford made him more bereaved

Posey beaned, Joe’s hand’s jammed, Bum’s bike doth fall,
Smith, Mac, Morse, Brown spend all spring on DL.
Both Parker, Span can’t hit ball, can hit wall,
Pence tweaks knee, now whole outfield shot to hell.

Maybe Jints are like Old Boney First, who said,
“I saw Elba ere I met my Waterloo.
Learned if I win battles, need not count dead.
Must if war’s lost, to pay butcher’s bill due.”

Jints laugh like Lincoln when told what to do:
“‘Anyone’ can’t replace an outfielder done.
‘Anyone’ might replace one done for you,
I must replace one who’s done with ‘someone.'”

I don’t know what Bobby Evans must do.
Not the GM, I don’t build big league squads,
Learned, “Must trust Jints’ brain trust has a clue
To appease and not offend Baseball Gods.”

 



Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “With God on Cards’ Side”

By the Village Elliott

Oh, my game, it is baseball.
My home team’s the best,
The team that I root for,
Once league’s furthest west;
I’s taught and brought up where
Redbird fans reside,
Learn the St. Louis Cardinals
Have God on our side.

Learned the game from my father,
Local fan till last day.
Taught me, “Watch your team play, son,
Play the game the right way.”
Watched, rooted, and studied,
Played with own inner pride,
Like I learned as a Cards’ fan
With God on our side.

Have own Hall of Fame Roster
Bat with Redbirds on chest
Diz and Gibby hurled high heat
“Stan the Man’s” still our best
Slats, Pepper, Brock, Cha Cha
Curt Flood’s on-/off-field pride.
My team’s greats played the game right
With God on their side.

I attended first series,
Damn Yanks, ’64.
Teams split the first six games,
Each must win one game more.
Sat with Dad in the bleachers,
Where Mick’s last tater flied.
Final out celebrated
With God on our side.

Beat Damn Yanks for first title.
Old Pete was the gent,
Soon Lou and Babe payback,
In four games Cards are spent.
Split next two, early ’40s,
Wounded Damn Yankees’ pride,
Then they start counting dead boys
With God on their side.

After Second World War, boys,
BoSox dream Cards upend.
Later “Lonborg’s Champagne”
Drink “Impossible’s” end,
But post-Y2K,
Big Papi’s, Sox pride
Twice repay the Redbirds
With God on their side.

Oh, the record book tells it,
It tells it so well:

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.