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Christy Mathewson

by Michael Ceraolo

One nickname given to me was The Christian Gentleman,
which then as now connoted to some an insufferable prig;
I wasn’t that at all, as Jane and my teammates could well attest
I loved to gamble
I drank and swore occasionally
I was intensely competitive in everything
I mostly (though not entirely) accepted the code of the game
Being overseas in the war at the time,
I wasn’t able to testify against Chase,
and actually had to coach him
after he was acquitted!
A player has no control over the nicknames given him,
but I did my best to live up to that one.

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The Tree of Stealing

by Stephen Jones

I came to an open clearing,
In a Lone Star land known as
Home to the Houston Astros.

Here, the Tree of Stealing,
Its limbs covered with the signs
Of other teams, did grow.

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All, or Nothing-at-All, Ball?

by Stephen Jones

An uncle rich with old-time sentiment
Once patted me on the head, then pronounced:
“There is no shame in striking out.”
Sage advice, I guess, but times have changed:
Who has time for striking out, come October?

Home runs are being smashed at record pace,
The record number of strikeouts keeps ascending, and
My uncle would be dizzy at this two-fisted display.
Now the playoff question might well be:
Will one good arm outlast all those long-ball bats?

October will be interesting. . .

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Let The Ricketts Go Instead

by Sid Yiddish

Let the Ricketts go instead, let the Ricketts go instead.
After all, who paid for all those players to play?
It wasn’t lower management
And it wasn’t the fans
It was the Ricketts. It was the Ricketts.
Crushing our hero, like one million protesting pickets, silencing our voices, like sleeping crickets
But in the end, the chiefs always order up the final commands
And so it shall be known that in the history books of this season’s end that the shadowy figures above Rickettsville will send
A big heave ho to our mighty Joe
Whoosh! And out the door he’s shoved
Into a witch’s coven he is gloved and burned and scattered in a fine powdery ash, like stale popcorn in a blinding snow
Can we just let it be like several crushed cans of Old Style beer?
And accept the fact of…
Wait ‘til next year.