Mike “King” Kelly

by James Finn Garner

King Kelly was a man among men
You could tell he was in the pink when,
Charging the base like a crook,
He’d slide with foot hooked–
Immortalized in song, it was then.

 

On this St. Paddy’s Day, we salute King Kelly (1857-94), the son of Irish immigrants who played with the Chicago White Stockings (NL) and the Boston Beaneaters. Among the innovations credited to Kelly are the hit-and-run, catchers backing up first basemen, and the hook slide, which was immortalized in the song “Slide, Kelly, Slide!” 

 


Published in Former Teams, History, James Finn Garner, Limerick, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “If Not For Trout”

by James Finn Garner

If not for Trout
The Angels would be a shame
Wouldn’t win a single game
The bottom would drop out
If not for Trout

If not for Trout
Big A would be humdrum
Fans might even watch the Bums
Talk about a drought
If not for Trout

If not for Trout, Pujols would quit
Scioscia would get the heave
Escobar would be hitting the bricks
They’d be lost if not for Steve

If not for Trout
They would be Triple A
Simmons would beg for a trade
A stinking mess throughout
If not for Trout

 


Published in Ballparks, Fans, James Finn Garner, Los Angeles Angels, Management, Players, Songs and Parodies | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Ballad of a Cringe Man”

by Lou Carlozo

You walk into the booth with your microphone in your hand
The barflies see you on TV: “Oh crap, not him again!”
You smugly shrug it off but you don’t understand
Compared to Ernie Harwell, man, you suck
And the fans of baseball hate you, but you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

The Bleacher Bums are reeling, they’re about to lose their lunch
You’re the brat pre-adolescent everybody wants to punch
Even Harry Caray gets his undies in a bunch
From his grave I heard him moaning, “What the f*ck?”
Perhaps you’d raise a Bud to him, but you don’t know what that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

You flash your trusty press pass and you saunter to the booth
It’s time to practice color, but it’s black-and-white in truth
You may be Jack Buck’s son, but chances are he raised a goof
Perhaps you’ll get run over by a truck
The viewers want Bob Uecker, but you don’t know who that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Here’s a Series match-up that we all would die to see:
You against the Hot Dog Man calling Game 1 on TV
The Hot Dog Man sees ironies and humor you can’t see
And should you crack a joke, we’d say “Good luck”
We’d send you to the minors, but you don’t know where that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Somewhere there’s kid who wants to call the games like you
“Well, kid, here’s how it works, I’m gonna to tell you what to do:
Beat to death a Clayton Kershaw hero trope or two
Until his arm goes lamer than a duck.”
It’s time to turn the sound down, but you don’t care why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

Now you ignore the Cubs fan
Shouting the word “UGH!”
The Indian fans are flustered
Crying in their mugs
And you say, “What’s the matter?”
And they scream back, “Earlplugs!
“Give us some or else we’ll yell, ‘Go home!’”
The umps would call you “out,” but you can’t see why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?

So get yourself a job, you can mow Vin Scully’s lawn
Or maybe Theo Epstein needs himself a worthless pawn
Too bad you can’t be traded for a pitcher with no arm
Call Ernie Broglio’s agent, you stupid schmuck
But Broglio is crying, though you don’t know why that is
Do you . . . Mr. Buck?


Published in Ballparks, Broadcasters, Chicago Cubs, Cleveland Indians, Fans, Food, History, Songs and Parodies, St. Louis Cardinals | Link to this poem | No Comments

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Absolutely Sent Lawrie”

by Jim Siergey

Well, your baseball gait, you know you just ain’t jumpin’
Sometimes it gets too hard, you see
I’m just sittin’ here, waiting to see sum’pin
There’s just no progress in your injury
So we’re waiving you tonight, Brett Lawrie

Well, I waited for you with Adam Eaton
Yes, I waited for you with Adam Laroche
Well, I waited for you as we got beaten
When I thought Ventura would learn to coach
So we’re waiving you tonight, Brett Lawrie

Well, anybody can hurt his knee, obviously
Then again, not many hang on this long, fortunately

Some prospects are ripe way down in Charlotte
Some of them may boost White Sox esprit
It was tough trading Sale, but we’ll allow it
If Moncada is as good as he seems to be
So we’re waiving you tonight, Brett Lawrie

 


Published in Chicago White Sox, Management, Songs and Parodies | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Sale, Baby, Sale”

by James Finn Garner

Sale, baby, Sale
Flail at the heat he’s gonna bring
Sale, baby, Sale
Pitch the Sox to a Series ring

Don’t care that Fenway’s a hitters’ park
Dave Dombrowski’s set to make his mark
Lots of lefties pitching for this team
Lots of taters hit into the green

Sale, baby, Sale
Flail at the heat he’s gonna bring
Sale, baby, Sale
Pitch the Sox to a Series ring

With Benintendi, Bogaerts, Mookie Betts,
Faithful bean-eaters might forget
That choke in Cleveland in the first round
They’ll still come out–big college town

Sale, baby, Sale
Flail at the heat he’s gonna bring
Sale, baby, Sale
Pitch the Sox to a Series ring

 


Published in Ballparks, Boston Red Sox, James Finn Garner, Management, Players, Songs and Parodies, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Just Like Tom Ricketts’ Blues”

R.I.P.: Two American Icons

Mike “King” Kelly

Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “If Not For Trout”

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