The Boy

By Stuart Shea

The boy
Held a passel of baseball cards
Dating from before his birth
(His time on earth
Not even a thought)
With joy

 


Published in Fans, Free Verse, Stu Shea, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

Baseball’s Mysterious Ways

by the Village Elliott

Baseball works in mysterious ways.
Jints swept first nine games with Padres.
Though last three Pods swept,
Jints’ division lead kept
Because Bums lost two in same three days.

 


Published in Limerick, Los Angeles Dodgers, San Diego Padres, San Francisco Giants, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

Yankee Lineup Shakeup

by Stephen Jones

Right now, A-Rod and right handers don’t mix.
Right now, when he bats, it’s swing, miss . . . nix.
So, he’s chillin’ and sittin’ on the pines,
Girardi looks to players past their prime,
And the fan faithful wonders aloud:
If the team mantra is age before hitting,
Then A-Rod is right: Go with sitting.

 


Published in Management, New York Yankees, Players | Link to this poem | No Comments

Casey at the Tweet

by Hart Seely

The Twitterverse was raging o’er the Mudville game that day.
Both sides were firing salvos with the hashtag “#MudWillSlay!”
For broadcast rights, a local station raised a kingly sum
From sponsors Mudville Bong & Vape and Captain Morgan Rum.

In truth, the show’s producer viewed the game with mounting dread:
It would face the season opener to Naked: Walking Dead.
Yet the station had one weapon to ensure a ratings spike,
For the whole town would be watching, what with Casey at the mic.

Though 20 years had vanished, since he swung and missed that day,
He remained a local sports show host, the king of play-by-play.
He owned the Hyundai dealership, made time for local youth,
And no one ever missed a pitch with Casey in the booth.

But when the game fell out of reach, with Mudville down by four,
Two dozen TVs switched to watch Survivor: Baltimore.
And as the innings slipped away, the producer grew distressed.
To keep a decent audience, he’d need Casey at his best.

Then Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball!
And when the dust had settled, in the bottom of the frame,
Casey shouted out his catchphrase, “We done gots ourselves a game!”

Across the town, great cries of joy rang out like shrieking birds.
Five hundred Mudville faithful knelt, awaiting Casey’s words.
Five hundred phones, in unison, gave off a cheerful bleat,
And the population contemplated Casey’s fervent tweet.

It said, “Mexican illegals cause our paychecks to be littler.
“The media’s full of commies, and the President is Hitler.”
As fans across the bleachers analyzed what Casey wrote,
The show’s producer closed his eyes and loudly cleared his throat.

“Not good,” he grumbled angrily; he didn’t want to preach.
For Casey raised a scribbled note; it said, “It’s called free speech.”
“Strike one,” the show’s producer said, not one to fan a flame.
“We need to scrap the politics and focus on the game.”

But as the pitcher raised his mitt, and as the orb was thrown,
Casey’s very tiny fingers stroked the keypad of his phone.
He typed some words, deleted them, then typed them in again,
Tweeting, “Now they want girls’ restrooms to be filled by creepy men.

“The Muslims are upon us! It’s no wonder folks are mad!
“The President’s a moron! No one’s mentioning this! Sad.”
And as his harsh opinions hit the Internet anew,
The show’s producer hung his head. “Not good,” he said. “Strike two.”

Now Casey shrugged and gave a wince, as if he felt some pain.
And everyone was certain he would not hold forth again.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he brings high heat.
And now the landscape shivers from the tone of Casey tweet . . .

O, somewhere on the Internet, ex-jocks can still condemn
Anyone who does not look, or think, or talk, or pray like them.
But elsewhere fans can watch and cheer, no politics to bear,
And there is less mud in Mudville: mighty Casey’s off the air.

 

Hart Seely, the Bard of Lake DeRuyter, runs the indispensable Yankee blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught, where this poem first appeared.


Published in Broadcasters, Fans, Former Teams, History, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

“Baseball, Baseball” by Jane Morgan


Published in Atlanta Braves, Baltimore Orioles, Boston Red Sox, Chicago Cubs, Chicago White Sox, Cincinnati Reds, Detroit Tigers, Los Angeles Dodgers, New York Yankees, Philadelphia Phillies, Pittsburgh Pirates, San Francisco Giants, Songs and Parodies, The Game Itself, video, Washington Nationals, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

The Ballad of Chris Sale

Crunch Time

The Boy

Baseball’s Mysterious Ways

AL East

NL East

Extra Innings

AL Central

NL Central

Poems by Type

AL West

NL West

Heavy Hitters

Copyright 2007 Bardball.