by Eddie Gold
Baseball is for all, regardless of religion or race,
And it’s the Babe blasting one into outer space.
It’s the banker sitting next to the guy without a job,
And it’s the base-stealing exploits of Tyrus R. Cobb.
It’s the vendors hawking scorecards, peanuts and ale,
And it’s Landis, the Czar, with his chin on the rail.
It’s pilots like Huggins, Mack, and Old Case,
And it’s a boner by Merkle, who skipped second base.
It’s Billy Sunday, from sinner to saint,
And it’s Willie Keeler, who hit where they ain’t.
It’s writers like Lardner, Rice and Runyon,
And its Wagner at bat, resembling Paul Bunyan,
It’s a crestfallen guy called Shoeless Joe,
And it’s the kid who pleaded, “Say it ain’t so.”
It’s opening day with the President in the park,
And it’s a homer by Hartnett, hit in the dark.
It’s nicknames like Dizzy and Dazzy, Pee Wee and Pants,
And it’s a double play by Tinker to Evers to Chance.
It’s the ornery cussing of Muggsy McGraw,
And the quiet temperance of Vernon Law.
It’s the pursuit of an asterisk by Mantle and Maris,
And it’s the Mats’ Boy Wonders, Cronin and Harris.
It’s the Giants Mathewson, who seldom would lose,
And it’s Taylor Spink and The Sporting News.
It’s the prayers for a pennant by a Brooklyn parson,
And a Series no-hitter by a guy named Larsen.
It’s the girl in the bleachers acquiring a tan,
And the hula-wiggle stance of Stan the Man.
It’s the training camps and the coming of spring,
And it’s Mr. Roberts, the first Robin of fling.
It’s the aroma of hot dogs, plain or kosher,
And it’s umpire-baiting by Leo Durocher.
It’s the blast by Thomson, with its thrills galore,
And it’s the 26-inning duel of Oeschger and Cadore.
It’s the pennant winner and the team in the cellar,
And it’s the blazing fastball of Bobby Feller.
It’s Hornsby, the Rajah, so brazen and bold,
And it’s Billy Martin, still knocking `em cold.
It’s Doubleday, Cooperstown and the Hall of Fame,
And it’s the band playing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.”
It’s the little leaguer and the kids at stick ball,
It’s rain checks, bubblegum cards, and most of all…
It’s America. Yes, BASEBALL IS AMERICA.
Published in Food, History, Management, Players, Pure doggerel, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 4 Comments