by Millie Bovich
A young centerfielder named Cratchett
Any fly in his zone, he would catch it.
With a wart on his nose
Almost big as a rose,
With his gloved hand, he just couldn’t scratch it!
Posted 6/9/08
Thanks To All Our Contributors and Readers !
BARDBALL’s rookie season was an experience that went far beyond our expectations. We’d like to sincerely thank everyone who checked us out, submitted poems, came to the “Poetry Grand Slam” in Chicago, and told their friends about us. Through sheer word-of-mouth, news about us spread all over the globe.
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And Ernie Harwell sent us a lovely note. Ernie. Harwell. Can you dig it?
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BARDBALL will be shutting down for the Hot Stove Season and emerge in Spring Training 2008 with new baseball verse, songs, and parody. We plan on some site improvements that will help us show more than one poem a day (to give the casual browser a chance to catch up) and allow video postings. We’ll also retire the “Barry Bonds Limerick Challenge” and keep an eye out for another juicy scandal to exploit. Other changes are also in the works. So bookmark us and check us out again next spring for the 2008 season.
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So long, everybody! See you at game time!
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James Finn Garner
Stu Shea
Click Below for Our 2007 Season !!
Tune in for the 2008 Season !!
Passed Ball
a melancholy poem by Lew Brickhate
You threw me curves all night, but before the night was over, I touched all bases.
Then we became battery mates, resulting in no-hitters.
Your over-sized mitts would catch the release point of my knuckle-spit balls.
But alas, you got traded to Japan–not Normal, a late-Bloomer, I could only throw so far.
But I will keep trying to reach you, even if it means I become Venus DeMilo.
Ignoring signals which come from above; I screwed up, I threw away love.
Posted 8/23/2007Â