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Southpaws on Parade

by Todd Herges

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Quick trips up are saved,

or so it is said,

for lefties who hit with good pow’r;

the finest of gems

scouts try hard to mine 

are sinister live-armed hurlers.

 

Oh-nine is the year

these truths can be seen

on both of the teams still alive.

 

For while Pujols is great

and Vlad’s bat can’t wait

they stand in the box close to third;

while Lincecum’s crazed

and Beckett is made

They’re now taking showers at home.

 

The teams that are left

are those who chose best,

hitched wagons to maladroit men.

 

Howard, Hideki,

Damon and Utley,

on demand can take the ball yard;

Cliff Lee and C.C.,

Cole Hamels, Andy,

quite clearly show that they’ve got game.

 

So now we are left

to watch quite impressed

A southpaw-filled Classic on Fox.

 

(The lefthanders playing in the World Series this year are:  pitchers Phil Coke, Damaso Marte, Andy Pettitte, CC Sabbathia, Antonio Bastardo, Scott Eyre, Cole Hamels, A.J. Happ, and Cliff Lee; hitters Robinson Cano, Johnny Damon, Brett Gardner, Eric Hinske, Hideki Matsui, Paul Bako, Greg Dobbs; Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, Raul Ibanez, Matt Stairs; plus switch hitters Melky Cabrera, Nick Swisher, Mark Teixeira, Jorge Posada, Jimmy Rollins and Shane Victorino.  Twenty-six men. Over half of the two combined rosters.  Juuust a bit outside the “normal” distribution of lefties among the general public.)

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Posted 11/2/2009

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Homer in the Ninth

by Todd Herges

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From the Ninth Book of Homer’s Odyssey         

(Lines 101-112, as translated by J. W. MACKAIL, c. 1905)                                                           

 

Then for a while, as long as morn was grey,            

And through the increase of the sacred day,             

Against them, though they far outnumbered us,       

We held our ground and kept in our array.               

 

But at the hour of the descending sun,                      

When from the plough the oxen are undone,            

Back the Ciconians drove the Achaean host             

And broke them, that escape we hardly won            

 

From death and doom:  but of my mail-clad host     

Six from each ship lay dead upon the coast.             

Thence we sailed on, escaping glad from death,       

Yet heart-sore for the comrades we had lost.            

                                                                                

 

Homer in the Ninth

 

Then for a while, as they in travel gray,

And through the weather of the autumn day,

Against them, though their fan base outsized ours,

We held our ground and kept L.A. at bay.

 

Long past the hour of the descending sun,

When from the beer the vendors are undone,

Back the Angelenos drove Manuel’s men

And broke them, that escape we hand’ly won

 

From season’s end:  beat’n by the red-clad host

The Dodger team lay dead upon our coast.

Thence we moved on, escaping glad from death,

Yet thankful Ryan Howard gives his most.

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Posted 10/22/2009

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Elegy

by Ember Nickel

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Raise up a roof, the finest of its day.
“No longer,” boast, “shall rain or snow deter
Our baseball games; we’ll always get to play.
Whatever the weather, we won’t defer.”

Raise up your eyebrows and mutter along.
“This thing’s ugly.” “This is a piece of junk.”
“Who built this mess, and where did they go wrong?”
“Did anybody realize that it stunk?”

Raise up your voices, fill the roof with sound.
Don’t worry if, when on the road, they lose.
They’ll come back home and then they’ll come around.
We have home-field advantage, what good news!

Raise up the flags, the pennants proudly won.
No matter if one season we’re the worst.
We’ll rally back, we’ll never say we’re done
Till we raise the second flag, again first.

Raise up a generation till they love
The game, but subtly imply they should hate
The field they see. Whisper “blue sky above
Is what you want–this all is second-rate.”

Raise your shoulders if they ever ask why.
Shrug, write it off, until they do not know
What’s wrong with what they have. “Who needs the sky?”
You’ll hear them wonder. “We can’t see it. So?”

Raise up the record: “Cool things at one site.”
World Series! Super Bowl! The Final Four!
The All-Star game! Oops–college game tonight.
Finish the baseball later. Out the door.

Raise new foundations to the north and west
As triumphant years give way to malaise.
“No, no!” claim. “This new field will be the best!”
Hyping it up with such premature praise.

Then suddenly your suspicions are raised.
They can’t come back. Not this late. Not this far
Down in the standings. But the fans who praised
The team all along still believe. They are

Standing and yelling, raising themselves out
From their seats. And now the team too will rise.
The final weeks are what it’s all about,
The final push until you reach the prize.

Raise up your hopes. Lose game one-sixty-three.
But keep the hopes high. You’ll get them next year,
Rallying back at the last. Can it be?
Most of our hopes already beyond here

We win nevertheless, for we still care.
You thought you’d given up–this was your proof.
You’re not jaded. You’ll cheer when the field’s there.
That’s all you need to know. Raze now the roof.

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For more of Ember’s marvelous writing, check out her blog, Lipogram!  Scorecard!

Posted 10/19/2009

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The Poetry of Baseball Found Even in its Rules

By Todd Herges

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On every umpire’s judgmental call,
Such as whether a pitch is a strike or a ball,
Or whether the sphere lands fair or lands foul,
No manager, player or substitute shall
Object to the outcome or else he will fall

From grace, from the field, from the dugout, the park:
“Y’er out!” grizzled umps often loudly will bark
At the offending jerks, the ones who don’t know,
The ones who can’t see despite daylight or glow
Of the huge vapor lamps, which hang tall and dark

‘Til dusk when they shine their light down on the field,
When the Sun says, “Hey Moon, to you I now yield –
Enjoy the big show of the men in tight pants
With their caps, their gloves and their spikes as they dance,
And the long wooden clubs they skillfully wield.”

Those offending jerks, so badly shortsighted,
Make sure to leave NASCAR-type fans delighted.
It’s like watching a wreck, a fight or a brawl,
Except the offenders see nothing at all
Wrong with their actions, it leaves them excited

About their team’s chances, or that’s what they think.
What they don’t know is that strike zones can shrink,
And bang bang-type plays can be called either way.
So when the game’s over, by end of the day,
Their team’s chance to win will most certainly stink.

Rule 9.02 (a)
[verbatim, from The Official Rules of Major League Baseball]
Any umpire’s decision which involves judgment, such as, but not limited to, whether a batted ball is fair or foul, whether a pitch is a strike or a ball, or whether a runner is safe or out, is final.  No player, manager, coach or substitute shall object to any such judgment decisions.
Comment:  Players leaving their position in the field or on base, or managers or coaches leaving the bench or coaches box, to argue on BALLS AND STRIKES will not be permitted. They should be warned if they start for the plate to protest the call.  If they continue, they will be ejected from the game.

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Posted 10/16/2009

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How Many Hats

By Todd Herges

Each year around this time,
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the Cubbies’ fade begins,
thoughts of a famous postman
rise up to haunt and amuse me.

Joe Doyle was a man who delivered the mail
in rain and sleet and snow,
and on his route was the Tumble Inn  –
a downstate Illinois tavern –
home to all fans of both Northside Nine
and their great crimson rival.

The year ‘69 held a season of fun that
was special and fine for Joe:  his team
seemed a lock for the pennant …
until that Miraculous cloud,
like the rainstorms at Woodstock,
rolled darkly across his landscape.

On one infamous day that September –
as I sat in my Kindergarten class
learning of Apollo astronauts, the Aquarian age,
and letters and numbers and shapes –
Joe with his mailbag walked somberly,
I suspect, down Hickory Street toward the bar.

I’ve often wondered what went through
his mind on that hot Indian Summer morn
as he noticed the strangely full parking lot,
the parking meters on the street out front
all paid, the pregnant surprise party silence
lurking behind neon beer signs in the windows.

There’s not much doubt
what came out of his mouth
as he walked in a huff through the door
and into a smiling wall of Cardinal fan faces,
each one full of good jeer.

I’ve been told it sounded something like
“To Hell with ALL of ya!”
as the flung mail fluttered through the air
and fell like scattered bitter tears to the barroom floor –
as he turned his back on fellow fans of the pastime
and walked out the darkling still-open door
before it had yet banged shut.

Twenty-some years later Joe died.

He was honored by Cub fans and Card friends
alike – the Diehard fans more somber, I suspect,
with inklings of dread at sharing his fate:
he’d lived his long life whole and true,
full of joys and sorrows, pleasure and pain,
children and grandchildren, fortune and fame,
without once enjoying a single, solitary, goddamn title.

Yet still, before the casket lid shut,
a familiar blue cap was laid on his chest
and then moved to the top of his head.

Each year around this time
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the drive for the pennant kicks up
dust for the Cubs to chew on,
I’m often led to wonder
how many other hats,
with that same old circular C,
rest quietly underground, waiting.

Published 8/28/09