Lyric – Page 23 – Bardball

“Hey There, Mark Buehrle”

(A love song inspired by Chicago’s very own Plain White T’s)

by John Renneke

Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
Don’t you go to New York City.
It’s one thousand miles away,
And Mark you throw your curve so pretty,
Yes you do,
Dice-K can’t shine as bright as you,
I swear it’s true,

Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
Don’t you worry about the distance,
We’ll make up the gap in no time,
Like LeBron against the Pistons.
Close your eyes.
Listen to my voice you’ll win the Cy,
And then we’ll cry

Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
What you do to me.

Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
I know sometimes you’re hit hard,
But I believe in you to fight back
Like you do cuz you’re a star,
We’ll have it good,
We’ll beat the Cubs down like we should,
They aren’t that good.

Hey there, Mark Buehrle.
How I love to watch you play,
The way you get the ball and throw it
Whether at home or away.
You give it all,
No matter how far that we fall.

You give it all,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
Oh it’s what you do to me,
I know you grew up with the Cards,
but they’ve got Albert and other stars.
The south side’s where you’re loved the most by far.

Your friends may well make fun of you,
but we’ll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way.
Mark Buehrle, I can promise you
That by the time we get through,
The league will never ever be the same,
And you’re to blame.

Hey there, Mark Buehrle,
You be good and don’t be foolish.
Four more years and sixty million,
We’ll get back to making history like we do.
You’ll know it’s all because of you.
You can do whatever you want to.

Hey there, Mark Buehrle, here’s to you,
This ones for you.

Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
Oh sign on the dotted line,
On the dotted line.

7/5/07

Ode to the KingDome

by Todd Pheifer

When I was a boy,
I would go to the Dome,
The Dome that the people called King

To watch my M’s play
And undoubtedly lose,
But in the 7th, at least we could sing.

Eventually the roof
With its rain-soaked tiles
Began to fall to the ground
In little lawsuit-friendly piles,

So the men with the dynamite
Were called to the site
And the Dome was extinguished
With a BOOM in the night.

7/3/07

Brett On, George Brett

by Sandy Marshall

Brett on, George Brett.
Pine tar would do
But that was never you.
Instead . . .
You chose Skoal.

Brett on, George Brett.
The homers you’d hit
And we’d never forget
As they’d land in the fountains of Kansas City’s Mitts.

BRETT ON, George Brett.
You signed a card one night
At a Mizzou game at Hearnes Center,
That’s right.

Bud Black was there too.
But you . . .
Were the main draw.
Yes you.

BRETT ON!

Posted on 6/29/07.

Here’s to the Men of Milwauk

by Stu Shea

Here’s to the men of Milwauk,

Who are making the baseball world talk.

There’s a Hardy man at short and a Gross in reserve,

While the pitching staff’s Sheets are quite billowy.

Bill Hall runs ’em down while Craig will give Counsell

And Prince Fielder’s body is pillowy.

Yes, the Brew Crew is back in Milwauk,

Giving all its opponents a shock.

The rotation has been solid despite their less-known names,

And Francisco Cordero slams doors.

Though the roof of their park still sports a few holes,

The beer is the only thing that pours.

Yes, the Brew Crew is ready to rock,

Now that Bud Selig’s name’s off the block.

For Rod Beck

When we heard of the death of The Shooter

We all grabbed a beer and a smoke…

And we toasted the long-ago memories

And the quick way he had with a joke.

He’s dead, just 38.

It makes no sense

To those of us here on the outside.

Why him? He seemed normal.

Never formal,

So unaffected by the fame

Of the great game,

But sometimes worlds don’t collide.

For some, there’s no life after baseball.

For some, there’s no way to adjust.

So he left his wife and two children

In a cloud of motorhome dust.

He’s dead, just 38.

He died alone

In Phoenix, for God’s sake.

It’s got to be a mistake.

Sure, he liked a beer and his cigarettes.

That was part of his character.

But beneath the veneer

Of that which is legal,

it all was much worse.

The curses

Of hard drugs and failure

Of arm injuries and rehab

Are tough on athletes

With nothing else to do.

You can’t fish all day.

You can’t drink beer all day.

But when you’re Rod Beck,

And the dream is gone,

What do you do with your time

But look for the next high

And kiss each day goodbye?