By Stephen Jones
A mass of numbers — that’s baseball.
Now, however, stats of memory (and tradition)
Are being supplanted . . . by accounting firms who
Leverage numbers for metric analysis.
You sing: Where have all the baseball cards gone?
The answer is: Welcome to the data crunch.
It isn’t enough, anymore, to say so-and-so hit two-forty.
Calipers now have been applied — it’s a
Surgery of analytics, to build a better bionic team.
by Doug Fahrendorff
Optimism in short supply
Among Brewer fans
If Baseball America can be believed
A wave of prospects
Is on the way
That could go far
Toward making Milwaukee famous
For something except beer
The rebuild continues
Hoping for improvement
As the season
Plays itself out
by Tony Puma
Gray rain pours down on/
Burgundy slate roof.
Red, white, blue, bunting on/
Emerald snack-bar hung.
Lemonade cold in/
Clear plastic bucket.
Orange bus on/
Black pavement, wet.
White lines criss-cross, run/
Red clay infield, mud.
Brown patches in/
Green grass outfield.
Golden sun waited-on by/
Purple-clad Little Leaguers.
Yellow rain-slick worn over/
Navy suited Umpire.
by Stephen Jones
You’ve had all winter to think about it:
Those round words — play ball.
You even snugged them in the hollow of your glove.
All winter, they gave it — and you — shape.
Now the waiting’s done, the doors are open,
And cleats grate on locker room floors.
Spring training, and the game, unfolding,
You share space with expectation and hope.
by Raphael Badagliacca
Of all the moments in the game
none is more lonely than this . . .
when the visitors wildly exclaim
their joy and celebrate
their happy fate
the less than one percent
like marauders of old
in the sacred home they desecrate
while thousands look on in stony silence.