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Ever, and Anon.

by Paul Kocak

The oracles erred:
Not-so-great expectations
“Suhwwiinng and a miss”
(Cue Kuiper)
It’s a year of the Yaz
And razzmatazz
A Wade into wonder
Hitting in the pinch
Going for the clinch
They might be Giants
Indeed they are
Homer-ic team-sters
An arc of anonymity
Pining for posterity:
LaStella oh so stellar
Longo launching long ones
Into Baseball’s Starry Night
Posey, Belt, and Crawford
Renascence Men
Solano Flores Bryant
Rogers Disco McGee
Watson Wood Webb
Gausman Casali Garcia
Duggar Cueto Slater
Dickerson Doval Dubón
Littell Leone Quintana
And Kazmir redux!
On and on
Names forgotten?
No matter.
A roster
For Gabe Kapler
O captain our captain
Anonymous
Synonymous
With eponymous
Giants
Ever and anon.
Twenty
Twenty-one
Fun salute.

Paul Kocak is the author of Baseball’s Starry Night and World Serious, as well as the poetry collections Rounding Third and Tipp Hill Litanies.

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Stealing Signs, 1951

by Michael Ceraolo

Herman Franks

We stole signs from the Germans and the Japanese,
and it wasn’t wrong for us to do so
While baseball isn’t life or death,
winning instead of losing is part of our way of life,
so it wasn’t wrong to steal signs in ’51
When Leo suggested it,
and Hank Schenz volunteered his telescope,
I was happy to be the spy relaying the signs
And if that could always assure victory,
we would have won a pennant or two
doing it while I was managing San Francisco,
instead of finishing second four years in a row

Bobby Thomson

Because of the way I was raised,
I struggled for years to justify what we were doing
I finally realized that,
even if you knew what pitch was coming,
you still had to hit it squarely,
and I deserved credit for doing so

Ralph Branca

I was among those taunting the Giants
earlier in the season, so some might say
I got a deserved comeuppance
in giving up the homer to Bobby;
I don’t think so, because of the spy
Bobby got more credit than he deserved
and I got more blame that I deserved
We’ll be linked as long as baseball is played,
and I’m at peace with my role in the drama

 

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Hail to the San Francisco Giants, or Foul Weather Fans

by Thomas Davenport

Three cheers for nine players in orange and black
Our national pastime they play by the Bay
Cross infield and outfield, base lines, warning track
They always amaze us with their sterling play

Their game they pursue in an unfriendly clime
The town of St. Francis is known for its gales
While fields ‘cross the land enjoy warming springtime
We’re at the low end of the temperature scale

They won the World Series in three even years
In radiant glory the faithful did bask
In odd years we have fewer reasons to cheer
Is two in a row really too much to ask?

But know that we fans are all glove-leather tough
What you call a hurricane, we call a breeze
There’s not one among us you’d term a cream puff
We’ve grown used to baseball in forty degrees

And this never stops us from rooting the players on
We simply make sure that we have enough layers on.

 

Thomas O. Davenport is an author living in Pasadena, California. He writes short fiction and light poetry on topics that amuse, bemuse and confuse him. He doesn’t expect to run out of subject matter any time soon. In spite of his move south from San Francisco in 2020, he continues to root for the Giants. He doesn’t miss the weather at the ballpark, however. Tom’s collection of comic verse, Get the Hell to Work, was published by Kelsay Books in 2020. 

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Fred Merkle

by Michael Ceraolo

I was nineteen, playing occasionally
and learning inside baseball from Mr. McGraw and the veterans
What I did on September 23, 1908
was the common practice at the time
We had to re-play that tie game and lost,
missing out on the pennant by that one game
To his eternal credit, Mr. McGraw never blamed me,
nor did any of my teammates that I knew of
But sportswriters needed a scapegoat for their stories,
and so from that day forward I was Bonehead Merkle
to the sportswriters and fans
And that wasn’t the only bum rap I took:
there were whispers that I was involved in
the fixing of the Cubs-Phillies game of August 31, 1920,
and though there wasn’t a shred of evidence
(there couldn’t be, because I wasn’t involved),
the whispers were enough to keep me out of the majors,
though I came back in ’25 and ’26
for a few games as a player-coach
I was managing in the minors a few years later
when some rookie called me Bonehead,
and I walked away from baseball that day,
with absolutely no regrets in doing so

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Mel Ott

by Michael Ceraolo

During my playing days I was noted
for my unusual batting stance and hitting home runs,
but now I think I’m mostly known
as the object of Durocher’s derisive remark
about where being a nice guy gets you
Though I didn’t have the success as a manager that he did,
the suggestion that being a nice guy
means you can’t be competitive or successful
is too ridiculous to even discuss,
something only Durocher could have come up with
I don’t see how my playing record
could have been improved by a nasty disposition