Barry Bonds, Barry Bonds,
Won’t someone please buy Barry Bonds?

The burly man-child at 44
Surely can give something more.

While the Rangers could use his mighty bat,
Texas must have a big enough hat.

In Minnesota he could deliver the goods,
And spend days off prowling the woods.

In New York, the powerful media glare
Would show if there’s any personality there.

Washington would enjoy spinning turnstiles,
And be handy for the start of his perjury trial.

It’s time to move to make the playoffs this year.
Come on! He can give SOMEONE a shot in the rear!

Posted 8/18/08 

The Cubs are the best team in baseball.
So good that your toes may curl.
I’m worried that we may be approaching the end of the world.

A black man may become president.
No matter what sludge Repubs hurl.
I’m worried that we may be approaching the end of the world.

The hole in the ozone layer is wide–
With enough space to fit Terry Forster inside
Our societies reek of fratricide
While starving untold millions have died.

Just like in Kinsella’s great story,
Those in control don’t know what to do.
All I know is that when we all go
We prob’ly won’t bleed Cubbie blue.

Posted 8/15/08 

Still, let’s get one thing straight:
There are vital differences between them,

And it all boils down to this…

White collar versus blue collar,
Upper management versus the union,
Family versus The Family,
Particular versus pride,
The SUV versus the family van,
Pencil-neck versus redneck,
The prize trophy wife versus the missus,
The hunks versus the hits,
The stunts versus the stats,
The goat versus the gut.

But it’s the Sox fans who can take the heat, versus the Cub fans who will try to sell you the entire kitchen.

Posted 8/11/08 

Grandy!
No one with a bat is more handy,
With a stance coiled like ribbon candy.

Grandy!
His gait is smooth like aged brandy,
Stretching singles into doubles his modus operandi.

Grandy!
In any outfield, verdant or sandy,
He’ll grab more flies than the Rio Grande.
With five skills at his command, he
Picks up his team like a Starbucks grande.
He could melt the heart of Tristram Shandy.
Man o man, that kid is dandy.
Can’t you tell? I love Grandy!

Posted 8/8/08 

When was the last time you ran barefoot in the grass?
When was the last time you even threw a baseball?

Roll your fingers over the seams.
Try a fingertip knuckleball.
Pound your glove.

Think of your baseball days, before OPS and Direct TV
When you’d play all day until the sun went down
And even then you’d switch to ‘running bases,’ tossing the ball under the misty summer lamplight.
While other kids ran
And millions of bugs headed toward the bright.
And when everyone goes in for the night,
See if the Cubs game is still on.

They’re in Pittsburgh, blowing another lead in the ninth.
Jack Brickhouse is moaning. The bullpen crumbles.
And when it’s all over, and you’re exhausted with frustration
At Dave LaRoche and Oscar Zamora,
You realize there’s another game tomorrow, both for you and the big boys.

You knew NOTHING of the world at 12. But you knew baseball, and that’s what counted.
The game was an escape, a separate world with its own set of rules, a prism through which to look at your existence.
Organized rules, hope, glory, sunshine, and action.
Nothing like your own, seemingly arbitrary, life.
Which is why you needed it.

You’ll always need it to bring you back to joy, to freedom, to your own self.
For that skinny 12-year-old just begging for acceptance, begging to just be good enough at something.
And the game gave you hope.
So turn off the TV, the computer, the instant updates on your device
And play catch.
Just play catch.

It’s nice.

Then, in response to the Tribute to Johan Santana….

Published 8/3/08

Mother, may I slug the umpire,
May I slug him right away?
So he cannot be here, mother,
When the Clubs begin to play?
Let me clasp his throat, dear mother,
In a dear, delightful grip
With one hand, and with the other
Bat him several in the lip.
Let me climb his frame, dear mother,
While the happy people shout;
I’ll not kill him, dearest mother,
I will only knock him out.
Let me mop the ground up, Mother,
With his person, dearest do;
If the ground can stand it, mother,
I don’t see why you can’t, too.
Mother, may I slug the umpire,
Slug him right between the eyes?
If you let me do it, mother,
You shall have the champion prize.

Quoted in Crazy ‘08 by Cait Murphy.

 Posted 7/28/08