By Stuart Shea

Farewell, Buehrle,
Never surly,
Perfect game and Series ring.
Sox fans wish you everything.

Huddy, boy, you’ll be missed,
South and north, east and wist.
Auburn, Atlanta, by the Bay,
222 wins ain’t hay.

Jeremy Affeldt said goodbye,
Left the field and maybe cried.
Made some cash, answered the bell,
Made himself some friends as well.

Aramis Ramirez
Hopes for a Seriez.
He’s played a lot of ball,
But not much in the fall.

A.J. Burnett wants the same:
Play more than one October game.
And yes, he really cares
To play a role for the Corsairs.

And who else out there will call it quits
When the uni or job no longer fits?
Or the outright release came?
Who’s played his last game?

Barry Zito? Dan Haren?
A-Rod, Colon, or Beltran?
Latroy Hawkins, Betancourt,
Or some other old man?


Published in Atlanta Braves, Chicago White Sox, Chicago White Sox, Colorado Rockies, Fans, History, New York Mets, New York Yankees, Oakland Athletics, Pittsburgh Pirates, Players, Pure doggerel, Stu Shea, Toronto Blue Jays | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

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 bleachers 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, Food, Former Teams, History, Los Angeles Dodgers, Management, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments

Mike Pelfrey is a

By Stuart Shea

He said all spring he wanted to start,
But his pitching this year smells much like a
Don’t matter who’s batting, he’ll just get a hit.
It’s clear the guy just pitches like


Published in AL Central, Minnesota Twins, Players, Pure doggerel, Stu Shea, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment

Days of Future Past: Blue Jays Edition

by James Finn Garner

Let’s all give a hearty three cheers
For Toronto’s first berth in 23 years.

What was it like in that bygone age?
Steroids in baseball were not yet the rage.

Our phones were attached to our desks.
Melting ice caps did not pose a risk.

Bill Clinton had not been impeached,
And Saturn had yet to be reached.

Newt Gingrich somehow held power.
New York still had its Twin Towers.

But some things were the same long ago:
Bryce Harper still had a toddler’s ego.


Published in Former Teams, History, James Finn Garner, Pure doggerel, Toronto Blue Jays, Washington Nationals, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments

Compliment from a Rival?

by Stephen Jones

David Ortiz speaks
“You can’t ignore the Yankees”
Postseason blessing?


Published in Boston Red Sox, Haiku, New York Yankees, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

Wild Card

Thanks, Steve Jobs


RIP: A Sixty-Year Lament

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