Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
Because I signed the work “Phin”,
as I did all my newspaper verse,
over the years it allowed others
to claim credit for the poem,
though I believe I finally succeeded
in establishing my authorship
Later generations
might describe me as a one-hit wonder
as a way to denigrate the work,
but the excellence of the poem
can withstand any criticism
The Yankees swept the Astros
Thanks in part to Juan Soto
And his late-inning heroics.
I know, I know: one weekend
Doesn’t make a whole season,
But there are smiles in the Bronx.
5 a.m. chiaroscuro of clouds
dark & light
like day & night
like right and wrong
I climb over the
seat into the back
of the car when
we reach Buddy’s.
“Who is that, Al?” Buddy asks
as he sits, pumpkin-sized head
in silhouette.
I am shadow
on vinyl:
the hum of the engine soothes
like a lullaby.
In Pittsfield a bottle is found
under a seat.
Rain beats on the roof
like knuckles;
the great city, people, buildings, Yankee Stadium
drenched, the crown immense.
Maris hits one out
to right;
a big man in the grandstand catches
a foul ball in his bare hand and
stands like the Statue of Liberty.
After the game is called
we leave:
On the ride home Buddy and
Uncle Al joke, laugh
smoke cigarettes
as I
in the back
become more
invisible
each mile.
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.