RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

by Robert Hilliard

They’re gone.
Pete, Pee-wee and Jackie
entertaining the
Knothole Gang
by crashing into walls,
hustling infield rollers,
and stealing home with a bang.

They’re gone.
Dolph and Cookie and Leo.
No Lip to the umps
No soda or peanuts or crackerjacks.
No cries from the
twenty-five cent bleacher seats
“Wait till next year!”
No more we’ll be chumps.

And Hoyt ain‘t hoit anymore.

They’re gone.
Van Lingle the Mungo and Sandy the K
and Campy, Newk, Preacher
and Mickey, who dropped the third out,
kicking the game away.

Even after Ralph hurled
the Shot Heard ‘Round the World
we were soothed by the guy in the catbird seat.
Red’s voice helped take away the heat.

There was sweet swinging Duke
and Gil’s four in a game.
Why aren’t they
in baseball’s Hall of Fame?

We can still boo the Giants,
but it just ain’t the same.

Waiting year after year
for a moment delirious,
to root for the trolley boys,
at last, in 1955,
in the Woild Serious.

Finally, some fame,
more games to be won,
big houses to tally.
And the money ain’t lame.
But poof, they were gone,
a pox on O’Malley.

A pseudo-team now in LA
copping a cherished name.
An usurper.
A pretender.
A thief.
For shame! For shame!

It’s gone.
They’re gone.
Rest in Peace, Ebbets Field.
Rest in Peace, Brooklyn Dodgers.

 


Published in Ballparks, Fans, Former Teams, Free Verse, History, Los Angeles Dodgers, San Francisco Giants | Link to this poem | No Comments

Fair Ball Lined into His Nuts

by Stuart Shea

The bigger they are, the more they hurt…
So Juan Uribe got a just dessert
With a liner in the groin.
And that’s not a roll of coins,
And he’s NOT happy to see you.

 

From GQ: Juan Uribe Has a Very Good Excuse for Not Wearing a Cup


Published in Cleveland Indians, Pure doggerel, Scandals, Stu Shea, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 3 Comments

Sox Machine, Gears Stripped

by Stuart Shea

The Sox Machine has broken down.
J-Roll is rolling out of town,
The latest on Latos isn’t good—
He’s available in trade for a cord of wood.
Nobody thinks it’s the manager’s fault
That the bullpen’s a victim of nightly assault
While the power hitters ain’t hittin’ or powerin’—
And it’s far too late to re-sign Moose Skowron.

 


Published in Chicago White Sox, History, Players, Pure doggerel, Stu Shea | Link to this poem | No Comments

Old Timers’ Day (06/12/2016)

by Stephen Jones

It was Old Timers’ Day
At Yankee Stadium:
Familiar names played the field;
Yogi was remembered.
The banter in the booth
Was long on lore and tooth
And was like the game itself:
A scrapbook of past and present–
Because baseball never gets old.

 


Published in Ballparks, Broadcasters, Fans, Former Teams, Free Verse, History, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

South Side Hit’n’Miss Men

by Jim Siergey

The White Sox signed lefty bat Morneau
But hold off before saying “Bongiorno”
You’ll just have to wait
For Justin’s plate date
Because his damn elbow is torn so.

 


Published in Chicago White Sox, Limerick | Link to this poem | No Comments

All Hail Ichiro

Realigned Adjustment

RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

Fair Ball Lined into His Nuts

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