Browse all poems and songs in the 'Pure doggerel' Category


Crossing the Clemente Bridge

by Stewart O’Nan

The Tigers come in 6-0.
That’s not how they’re gonna go.
Our offense may not look like much–
a bunch of kids surrounding Cutch–
and sure, we’re missing Russell Martin,
Charlie Morton’s no longer startin’,
Volquez is gone, and bench coach Jeff Bannister
has a throne in Texas like a Bush or Lannister,
but A.J.’s back, and Cory Hart, Confederate soldier,
plus all the kids are one year older.
With Pedro
you don’t know,
so bring on the Cards,
the cream of the division,
and the Reds’ decidedly senior edition,
and the ‘roid-riddled Brew Crew,
and the overpraised Cubs.
We’ve got enough talent to hang with those clubs.
After years in the desert,
our wandering’s over.
Cutch is our Moses.
See you in October.

Let’s go Bucs!

 

Stewart O’Nan is the author of 18 books, including Faithful: Two Diehard Boston Red Sox Fans Chronicle the Historic 2004 Season, written with Stephen King. His latest novel is West of Sunset.



Some and Then Some

by Millie Bovich

Some managers spit pumpkin seeds in innings bad or fine,
Some managers come out to chat and won’t step on a line.

Some hitters crowd the batter’s box and twirl their bats on high,
Some batters take a too-close pitch and watch the beaut go by.

Some batters readjust their gloves, then readjust once more,
Then smack the whirling sphere into the parking lot next door.

Some fans will smother up their dogs, while some will eat them plain.
Some fans will watch in blazing sun, some gladly sit in rain.

Some fans will need a beer or three to quench a burning thirst.
Some runners just drink Gatorade when they slide into first.

Some pitchers work a snail’s pace and roam around the mound,
Then wind and throw a perfect strike that makes a sizzling sound.

Some unexpected umpire call will cause the fans to yell
That the authority in question should find his way to hell.

Some rookie out in center field will punch his well worn glove,
Then make a catch spectac’lar that the fans in stands will love.

Some fans will make excuses just to be there Opening Day.
It’s spring again, and time to watch the “boys of summer” play!

And the Tigers’ Ernie Harwell would begin the year the same
With a quote we’ve heard a thousand times before he starts the game.

“The Rose of Sharon blooms again”, ’cause spring is something grand,
“And the voice of the turtle will be heard in the land.”
.

Millie Bovich may be the oldest fan and contributor to Bardball. “I had the pleasure of meeting  All-Star Johnny Pesky when he visited the Detroit office of the FBI where I worked,” she writes, “and met and married a special agent from New York and made a Tigers fan out of him!”



Observation

by Stephen Jones

Item: MLB and MTV
Tries to create something glitzy—

A “field of dreams” designed to lure,
Fusing the game with pop culture.

If baseball wants the 12-34 fan,
It should think very hard about its brand.

The NBA has King James;
Likewise, football has big names.

Sure, baseball players also score
Big figures at the big-cash drawer,

But when that’s done, who remembers
The names, faces—or even numbers?

Where are baseball’s market tags—
The “somethings” of which it brags?

Baseball may self-tinker with the game,
But what it needs is names of fame.

 



Spring 2015

by Nathan Rudy

My Mets will win games, that much is clear,
With Harvey, deGrom and others this year.
If Cuddyer can hit, and Flores finds his mitt,
We won’t toss Alderson out on his ear.

But the best is out west, in the dry Vegas air,
Pitching their hearts out as arm tendons tear.
Matz, Monterro and Thor now are great,
But can’t reach the majors ‘til 21 days late.

So fans of the Mets will continue to fret,
Ownership’s bank account hasn’t recovered yet,
And hope for a year when we surpass 81,
And get to the playoffs ‘fore this century’s done.

 



Rendon, Rodon and Rondon

by James Finn Garner

Rendon, Rodon and Rondon
Were drinking beers one day
Their waitress Babs then served the tab
But couldn’t get it paid

For Rendon tore his tendon
When reaching for his dough
And the harlots down in Charlotte
Had left Rodon with diddly-oh

Rondon’s wing was in a sling
His back pocket much too far
So poor old Babs had to eat the tab
And banned them from her bar

 

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