Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
I see you guys in the video room,
just looking at your swings,
reading all these stats.
At some point, you have to just say,
“F— all that s—”
and just go out there and hit.
All I hear is y’all talking about
launch angle
and tendences
and exit velocity.
F—ing exit velocity!?
Motherf—ing exit velocity?!
How about motherf—ing exit hits?!
the lovely white orb came
i hit it.
Who’d’ve bet on this: That on the Second of August
in the Monkeypox year, instead of young Juan Soto,
the rising star wearing the mantle of Mickey,
we’d end the day focused on a 94-year-old
who always looked at home in a suit and tie
by the name of Scully? Vin made sports poetry;
his voice, a singularity of euphonic tones; his iconic prose
turned handheld Made-in-Japan radios into conduits
of prolific knowledge. He was able to share stories
that made men mythic—from Hammerin’ Hank Aaron
breaking the Babe’s record, his 715th hit to left, out of the park,
even football’s “Catch” from “Joe Cool” to Dwight Clark,
and he did it with wit, the way Shakespeare viewed it.
Now the Dodgers embark on the next stage of place;
they’ve lost their last connection to Brooklyn.
Everywhere, fans wept, feeling no disgrace.
A former New Yorker, Bill Cushing lives and writes in Los Angeles as a Dodger fan (by order of his wife!). His latest collection, Just a Little Cage of Bone (Southern Arizona Press), contains this and other sports-related poems.
In passing, they have words
that ruffle feathers.
Yogi, Whitey, and Mickey don’t like
Tennessee’s looks,
his Chesterfield smoldering in a holder,
the carnation in his lapel.
Tennessee’s no fan of home plate,
the outfield,
the mound Whitey’s cleats kick dirt from
before the curve leaves his hand.
Will it be low and side,
a strike?
The three Yankees have been on the air.
Jack Parr
asked good questions.
Tennessee’s about to go on,
but here’s this scuffle
with players
who know nothing of his Blanche,
the always
of her famous line
about kindness. Go to blazes, he says.
They walk away, thinking him good
with words, not worth their time.
Peter Mladinic’s most recent book of poems, Voices from the Past, is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.
Ping!
I hear aluminum,
Smacking leather.
It’s T-Ball time.
Winter to spring,
Changing weather.
I feel fine.
Pitchers and catchers
Are warming up.
In Arizona.
Umps and fans are
Are hollering BATTERUP!
In Florida.
Though a grandfather,
I’m a child again.
Playing in the grass.
She’s my granddaughter,
Playing in the rain.
So quickly seasons pass.
Snap!