New York, London, Paris, Munich
Everybody talk about, mmm….
Pop music, aye, and news and sport
But to Bardball blast, we must retort

From the bleachers, and godly seats
Loving testimonies – and testy tweets
Au contraire, in Europe there is but little
Interest – like our economy, entirely brittle

In our excitement, we do refrain
From all small talk of one Ferris Fain
Unknown to us, across the Golden Pond
In our view, his sport just a frond

Of the nascent game we called rounders
Those damn Yankees – cads and bounders!

Was that Tony La Russa after all?
The glasses look right. I don’t know the eyes.
Was that a slider? Changeup? Or curveball?
Perhaps this would be a good place for wise

Commentators to…maybe…commentate.
They keep silent, cutaway to the same
Fan–wedding ring, hair dyed, breath quick to bate–
That they have been showing throughout the game.

Give me the details that I could not hear;
The red glove, the necklace striped blue and white.
We all are fans and we can all guess fear,
We know what is at stake on such a night.

And beyond night, I’ll try myself to share
The game with others–it’s morning out there.

Ember Nickel makes sport with the English language on her blog, Lipogram! Scorecard!

“And what about?” I asked the eerie voice.
“On baseball,” was his firm and clear reply.
“Excuse me that I have to ask you why,”
I answered, but he said I had no choice.

“Of baseball I know less than does my cat,”
I said to him. “Come, let us have a chat

On other things that I might write about.”
He told me I had better close my snout

And just get going. Curse him! All the same,
I’m sure that baseball is a splendid game.
.
Estrid Balslev is a poet and performance artist from Denmark.

Posted 6/10/2010

.

Posted 4/21/2010

Harry Caray, a cup ‘o Bud and thou:
A day-game audience tuned to Channel 9.
With Stone up in the booth to keep it sane,
Up to the plate steps Galarraga now.
The bums in left all crowd around The Man,
Girls topped in bikinis fight to kiss his cheek.
Harry would like to do this every week
But risks abound:  beer vendors in the stands.

(He can’t quite hold it like he did in youth.)
Late in the game, while drinking his last pitcher -
Though bleacher visits each time thrill the crowd -
Steve must correct his mis-call from the booth:
“Um, Harry, that was thrown from the catcher.
The Big Cat, Galarraga, just struck out.”

.

Posted 6/15/2009

.

The first bright streaks are quiet now. Above
The brash background, the paintbrush sinks into
The paint. This is just the beginning of
The season. Time for layer number two.

It won’t look like this when the year is done.
Most paint will cover over what’s below.
The topmost layer will display who won,
And only what shines through will let us know

What else took place. X-rays might let us see
Archives and dry box scores. But from a glance
The peaks and valleys will be brightest. We
Might forget what’s partly just random chance

As it’s overpainted. But that is how
All seasons go. We’ll enjoy the streaks now.

.

A former contributor to Baseball Toaster, Ember’s blog is Lipogram! Scorecard!.

Posted 5/7/09

By Todd Herges

With apologies to Dizzy Dean.

Spring Break is time for training to play ball
For players and a college couple, too.
But not on sun-drenched South Padre Isle,
And not in Havasu or cheap Cancun:
This boy and girl chose Cactus League for fun.
It could’ve been Vallarta for few pesos.
Instead, like pitcher’s wife and baby son,
They sit on metal bleachers swapping besos.

The sun shines down, the pitchers look for signs.
The umps yell “Foul!” when balls cross outside lines.
The batboys all learn what there is to know.
The shortstops practice how to cut a throw.
While players wait for cut lists, pace the halls,
One schoolboy hopes she’ll kiss HIM.

Posted 3/9/09.

Should Adam from Milwaukee hit the road?
His prowess hitting baseballs from the park
Might truly cause my heart to overload.
Ah, yet the line ‘twixt fan and foe is stark
And Hark! Cry those who wish to see him gone:
“He strikes out often and he is not clutch!”
But others here in Redsville are quite fond
Of walks and pitches seen and that nonesuch
Formidable – that bat – when he’s afire,
But in the field is where he fares the worst.
His salary is high and growing high’r
And give him an extension, no one durst.

The fate of Adam Dunn I do not know,
But if he leaves, I’ll mourn to see him go.