by Hilary Barta
Take me out to the ballgame
(at Mega Predatory Capitalism Corp Park)
Take me out to the crowd
(taking selfies, texting their “friends” and checking email)
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack
(How much? They’re PEANUTS!)
I don’t care if I never get back
(Actually, I do have to work in the morning)
For it’s root, root, root for the home team
(full of spoiled, right-wing millionaires)
If they don’t win, it’s a shame
(There’s always next year)
So it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!
(now new and “improved” with replay challenges)
By Michael X. Ferraro
Hunter Pence fell down, went boom
with the ball still in the air.
But Giants fans, strike the gloom–
he made a recumbent snare!
by Peter Gordon
This second-most-famous baseball poem, by FPA,
Features these three turning double plays
When the game and league were young
“Take Me Out to the Ballgame” unsung
Their wins record in ’06 remains unbroken
Just like their great deeds remain unspoken
On the diamond their choreography
Like Astaire, Rogers and Gene Kelly
You may not know they hated each other
Quarreled worse than spurned lovers
Evers, the Crab, the agitator
Chance, Peerless Leader, peace maker
Tinker’s steady play kept it together
One of the greatest when he flashed leather
They led the Cubs to World Series wins
Not knowing none would come again
Left during the teens without backward waves
Evers 1914 MVP for the Miracle Braves
Chance led the Yankees before they were great
Tinker made a fortune in real estate
Some say they don’t belong in the Hall
I say count their wins: over 1,000 in all.
Peter M. Gordon recently published his second poetry book, Let’s Play Two: Poems About Baseball, available on amazon.com. His poems have appeared in Slipstream, 34th Parallel, The Journal of Florida Literature, and several other magazines, anthologies and websites. He currently teaches in Full Sail University’s Film MFA program.
by Hilary Barta
You just swung through his one-oh-two.
The ball’s a pea at one-oh-three.
But don’t ignore his one-oh-four:
You won’t survive the one-oh-five.
by James Finn Garner
As the end of his playing days appears,
I need to ask: Whither A-Rod?
There’ll be no other player left at his tier
On whose neck you can gleefully trod.
No gaffes to rehash, no mistakes to cheer,
No insinuations on his bod,
No schadenfreude thoughts to slur in your beer
That he’s a bum, a starlet, a fraud.
You won’t see Alex this time next year,
And the absence you’ll feel will be odd
Til you choose someone else, with your conscience so clear,
And condemn him like an Old Testament God.