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Hail to the San Francisco Giants, or Foul Weather Fans

by Thomas Davenport

Three cheers for nine players in orange and black
Our national pastime they play by the Bay
Cross infield and outfield, base lines, warning track
They always amaze us with their sterling play

Their game they pursue in an unfriendly clime
The town of St. Francis is known for its gales
While fields ‘cross the land enjoy warming springtime
We’re at the low end of the temperature scale

They won the World Series in three even years
In radiant glory the faithful did bask
In odd years we have fewer reasons to cheer
Is two in a row really too much to ask?

But know that we fans are all glove-leather tough
What you call a hurricane, we call a breeze
There’s not one among us you’d term a cream puff
We’ve grown used to baseball in forty degrees

And this never stops us from rooting the players on
We simply make sure that we have enough layers on.

 

Thomas O. Davenport is an author living in Pasadena, California. He writes short fiction and light poetry on topics that amuse, bemuse and confuse him. He doesn’t expect to run out of subject matter any time soon. In spite of his move south from San Francisco in 2020, he continues to root for the Giants. He doesn’t miss the weather at the ballpark, however. Tom’s collection of comic verse, Get the Hell to Work, was published by Kelsay Books in 2020. 

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SABR? You’re the Numbers Guys, Right?

by RJ Lesch

Inspired by the just-concluded #SABR49 in beautiful San Diego

Well, sure, we like our box scores and our stats.
The numbers shape the language of the game.
We count the pitches, hits and outs, at-bats,
why, everything that happens. Just the same,
the numbers, though important, are just part
of what we love in baseball. We write of
biography, or film, or scouts — the heart
wants what it wants, in baseball as in love.

Across the span of baseball history,
from old Egyptian bat and ball games through
the modern global enterprise, do we
enjoy its every aspect? Yes, we do!

There’s more to SABR than the numbers game,
although we love our numbers just the same.

 

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Cooperstown Sonnet

by Mikhail Horowitz

Posey, Puckett, Palmer, Perry
Kaline, Koufax, Killebrew
Thompson, Thomas, Tinker, Terry
Campanella, Cobb, Carew

Wilson, Wilson, Waner, Waner
Feller, Ferrell, Fingers, Flick
Torriente, Taylor, Traynor
Rixey, Mackey, Dickey, Frick

Kelly, Kelley, Keeler, Kell
Alston, Aaron, Appling, Vance
Brouthers, Baker, Bender, Bell
Delahanty, Anson, Chance

Weaver, Winfield, White and White —
And George and Harry, the Brothers Wright!

 

Mikhail Horowitz is an American poet, performance poet, parodist, satirist, social commentator, author and editor. He lives in the Hudson River valley.

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The Curse of the Billy Goat

by Mark Vincent

R. I. P.  Billy Goat Curse, 10/06/1945 – 11/02/2016

It started in Game Four of ’45
When Murphy, Billy’s goat, came to the game.
The Cubbies led the series, were alive,
About to claim some World Series fame.

The goat smelled bad and he was asked to leave.
His owner, Billy, wasn’t very happy.
He cursed the team; they lost. Chicago grieved.
The decades since, well, they’ve just been crappy.

But that, my friends, is finally in the past,
That blasted curse has now been laid to rest.
The pennant, then the Series won at last.
The Cubs can now stand proud, they are the best!

In seven games, and then an extra inning,
Chicago’s Cubs have found a new beginning!

 

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The NLCS, and Beyond

by Ember Nickel

The lead off third–most of the way around
The basepaths, yet the distance still to go
Looms large. The runner checks himself, has found
He can’t turn back; and he is left with no

Choice but to run, break forward, and defy
The pitch itself. Time slows, a run appears
From desperation, being forced to try,
And jaws that dropped pick themselves up for cheers.

What remains now, when superstition’s gone?
After imposed fake narrative, what’s left?
The game itself finds more plays to spin on;
Out of the blue, a miraculous theft.

One needn’t be a loser to love story;
There will be space for small moments of glory.