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Hack Wilson

by Michael Ceraolo

I started life with two strikes:
born to alcoholic, unmarried parents
and probably suffering from what would come to be called
fetal alcohol syndrome
Mom dying when I was seven,
Dad pretty much abandoning me,
leaving school after the sixth grade
and working dangerous jobs;
none of those managed to strike me out
Baseball saved me for a number of years,
especially my good fortune
in having Joe McCarthy as a manager
I had a fantastic five-year run;
you know the numbers, especially the one
When the Cubs fired McCarthy
and replaced him with Rogers Hornsby,
that was the beginning of the end for me
I was out of baseball a few years later,
and my alcoholism was the third strike,
taking me out of life at forty-eight

Chicago Cubs Hack Wilson with bat
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Rick Ferrell

by Michael Ceraolo

I hear some say
the wrong Ferrell is in the Hall of Fame
I think it’s a shame Wes isn’t in,
but I think I belong as well
Remember,
I was the catcher on the ’45 Senators
Sure, I led the league in passed balls that year,
but we had four knuckleballers in the starting rotation,
and that alone merits my inclusion

 

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Yankees 8, Toronto 4

by Stephen Jones

In far-off Buffalo,
Where midges fly
And the Blue Jays of Toronto
Now play their home games …

It was something special,
Something never seen before:

When the dust had settled,
At the end of the first inning,
People scratched their heads:

They’d just seen the Yankees turn
A 1-3-6-2-5-6 triple play —
The first in baseball history.

 

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Cy Slapnicka

by Michael Ceraolo

Cynical sportswriters called me Sly
because I played fast and loose with the rules
We nearly lost Bob Feller because of it,
but his and Bill’s desire for him to remain with Cleveland
because of our rapport as fellow Iowans,
plus the Commissioner’s decision
to save the owners from themselves
by forestalling a bidding war,
carried the day for us
We weren’t as fortunate with Tommy Henrich,
but we got lucky again with Lou Boudreau
Two out of three is a good batting average in rule-breaking,
so I guess maybe the sportswriters were right