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I Signed at Seventeen

By Doug K.

(With apologies to Frank Sinatra)

When I was seventeen…

I had a very good year.
I had a very good year. I hit .315
Got four mil from the Yanks.
And Jesus I thanked…
Montero, I mean.
I signed at seventeen…

When I was twenty-one…

It was a pretty good year.
It was a pretty good year.
Crushed 32 blasts and made AA
I’ll make the majors some day
Though it hurts when I run.
When I was twenty-one.

When I was twenty-five…

I once had much better years.
They found a hole in my swing.
I’m all out of springs.
Go to Arby’s for meals.
And I am an add-on in deals.
I knew I’d never arrive

When I was twenty-five.

And now the days are short…

I’m in the autumn of my career.
But for work…baseball I played
And at least once was paid
So I can’t shed a tear
At least I had a career.

My whole life filled with green…

I signed at seventeen.

This post originally appeared on the essential Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is…caught.

 

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No Mud in Joyville

by Dan Campion

There is no mud in Joyville.
Their Casey never whiffs.
His every at-bat sends a thrill
Through kids and working stiffs.

The gunshot when he clouts the pill
Resounds throughout the town.
Maids whisper, “O, my heart, be still!”
Cops fine you if you frown.

Off-field, their Casey works his will:
The town gave him its keys.
A batter with his peerless skill
Should thrive, Joyville agrees.

But Joyville’s championships are nil.
Their offense is a tease,
For Casey’s glove is typical:
Balls scoot between his knees.

And thus there is no dashing rill,
no pond, no lake, no mud,
no tide of trophies on the sill.
The Joyville nine’s a dud.

 

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When Leury Met Yimi, Instead of Luis

A Song by James Finn Garner

When the Sox started hitting
With no sign of quitting
Dusty thought twice
And brought in some ice

Dusty yanked one Garcia
(his pitcher Luis)
For another Gracia
(Yimi, if you please)
To pitch to Garcia
(The Sox one, Leury)
And Dusty was sure
He’d got rid of his worry

But….

Garcia pitched to Garcia
Bailing out Gracia
But stalwart stood Garcia
Hit the pitch from Garcia
Sent it flying o’er Garcia
The gladdened Garcia
Had saddened Garcia
And this is why we siiiiiiiing….

Garcia! Garcia! Garcia!
Throw that heater past
Garcia! Garcia! Garcia!
This game could be your last
Garcia! Garcia! Garcia!
Put life in that crowd
Garcia! Garcia! Garcia!
Make all Garcias proud !!!

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As Joey Goes

by HoraceClarke66

To the outfield his pop flies go
Weak as kittens, soft and slow.
Another out, a great big fizz-o,
He’s hitting even less than Rizzo.

This team is through. Short days ago
They played like they had somewhere to go.
Hit, and sometimes pitched, and now they doze
As Joey goes.

Forget this bunch of woeful schmos,
They’re not the heirs of Mick’s or Mo’s.
The torch; be ours to hold it high,
Pay no mind to the next Coops lie.

There will be teams to end these woes
Once Joey goes.

This poem originally appeared in the Yankee blog, It Is High, It Is Far, It Is….caught.