Best-Selling Humorist.
The blue plastic transistor radio
I snuck into
Sister Geraldine’s class
That October
Poured heavenly images
Into my ears
The centerfielder moved to short
The old lion roaming in right
The brawny arms of Willie the Wonder
The soulful stare of Mickey Lolich
And the plate Freehan protected from Brock
NONE SHALL PASS!
All the saints and martyrs
Bringing a miracle to Motown
Narrated by the voice of God
In a sweet Georgia baritone
One evening on 35th Street
A cardboard fan I happened to meet
She thought me conventional
Her? Two-dimensional
We plan to get married next week.
Rupture your hamstring?
It ain’t no thing.
Pitching arm strain?
Could be a gain.
Muscle tear to the groin?
You can still make coin
And skip empty cheering sections,
Playing the Marlins and Cards,
And the risk of infection.
Jealous of “Just Outside” Fauci,
Dollhands got a little bit grouchy
Invented an invite
To throw for the Pinstripes
Proving himself gouty, pouty and mousey.
As seen on Bardball.com
A hundred bucks for an obstructed seat
Cold in the shadow, then blistering heat
The pushy stat-head who needs a shower
Nine inning games that last six hours
Fans in my row with tiny bladders
The $30 million .240 batter
Ear-blistering rock soundtrack
Fourteen dollar Cracker Jacks
Security lines that go on for days
Video reviews, endless delays
Wasted bankers on company plastic
Knucklehead experts so bombastic
Lazy players, greedy owners
Chatterboxes, needy loners
Pina colada spilled down my back–
Goddamnit, I want baseball back!
1B Ángel Echevarria
2B Ángel Santos
SS Ángel Berroa
3B Ángel Sánchez
LF Ángel Mangual
CF Ángel Pagan
RF Rubén Ángel Sierra
C Ángel Peña
PH “Pearly” Gates Brown
RHP Ángel Sanchez, Ángel Castro, Ángel Nesbitt, Ángel Guzman
LHP Ángel Miranda, Miguel Ángel Cuellar, Ángel Moreno
MGR Felipe Alou-lujah
The All-Star Break gives us the time
For savoring athletics sublime
Rememb’ring blasts
We’ve had in the past
And recalling Bud Selig is slime.
The veteran White Sox broadcaster, with a wide repertoire of strange turns of phrase, retired as of this year.
A hero on the Sout’ Side of town
Hawk was a homer renowned
For phrases he’d rain
But he never explained:
What the hell was I s’posed to “strap down”?
and if you aren’t reading Bardball every day for your up-to-the-minute baseball doggerel, what’s your excuse?
Mickey Lolich
Sure knew how to pitch
And after mowing down opponents
He retired to make the donuts.
Mickey Stanley
Really came in handy.
Move to shortstop from center field?
Hey, Mayo, no big deal!
Stormin’ Norman Cash
All muscle, no flash
A steady squint, a Texas drawl
And a hunk of chaw to finish it all.
Bill Freehan
Was quite the he-man
Proud to stand up and block
The plate from Lou Brock.
Denny McLain
Was a royal pain–
A rip-off artist, a fraud, a sumbitch–
But in ’68, the bastard knew how to pitch.
Al Kaline
Hit .379
Drove in eight runs
And deserved every bit of his fun.
1B Johnny Mize
2B Joey Cora
SS Didi Gregorious
3B Ramon Castro
LF Tommy Davis
CF Johnny Damon
RF Johnny Callison
RHP Ramon Martinez, Tommy Hunter, Joey Hamilton, Mark Fidrych (honorary)
LHP Tommy John, Ramon de los Santos, Johnny Vander Meer
Mgr. Tommy Lasorda
One of the things I love about baseball players, especially Latin American players, is their creative names. Gleyber, Yoan, Avisail–nothing stretches the palate and the tongue like reading the rosters out loud.
So, inspired by a list I found of the 100 most interesting names of 2018 minor league players, I concocted some baseball doggerel for Bardball. The list can be found here, and with another go at it, I could probably write a completely new poem. So, while I lament the loss of player nicknames like Pee-Wee, Soapy and Suds, there are always new riches if you just look for them.
Don’t get cheeky with Dalton Geekie
Or throw a lot of derp on Franklin Van Gurp
We’ll soon know the warth of Shea Spitzbarth
Ain’t that the truth, oh, Maverik Buffo
Yezz, we will see about Yeffersson Yannuzzi
But I hope things sizzle for Austin Bizzle
“Can’t stop, won’t stop”–the motto of Zach Pop
Best make room for Makesiondon KelkboomSure, poke fun at the name of Blake Pflughaupt,
But he’s playing ball, sucker, and you’re naupt.
And aren’t you just waiting for Franklin Van Gurp to be called up?
It was quite an honor to be asked to participate in the induction ceremony for Ring Lardner last night. Lardner was born in Niles, Michigan, and spent a good deal of his professional life in NYC, but his formative years were spent as a sportswriter at various papers around town, including the Chicago Tribune.
I spoke on and read from Lardner’s short stories (if you haven’t read any of these yet, grab yourself a copy of “Alibi Ike” or “Liberty Hall” pronto). Other speakers included journalist Ron Rappaport (whose new book is “The Lost Journalism of Ring Lardner”), author Don DeGrazia (“What Lardner Means to Me as a Writer”), ESPN’s and GLAAD’s Christina Kahrl (“How Lardner Changed Journalism”), Cubs historian Brian Bernardoni (“The Chicago Lardner Knew”) and Lardner’s grandson James Lardner, a fine writer himself, who accepted the award for the family.
There is something so satisfying about rereading favorite writers and discovering how much they speak to my life. I love Lardner almost as much as I love Damon Runyan.
Over the weekend, the Chicago White Sox manned an outfield with three players named Garcia. They aren’t related, nor even from the same country, but they have broken through the invisible barrier that kept guys with the same name from filling a complete outfield. Our hats are off to them. From Bardball, of course:
Three Matching Sox
The game’s been built of 3s
Since, like, eternity.
3 outs, 3 strikes,
3 bases and the like
Now add to these trios
Garcias who with brio
Manned the grass for the Hose.
Unlike the real bros
Matty, Felipe and Jesus–
The splendid Alous–
These Garcias don’t own
Similar chromosomes
But never in history
Has an outfield had 3
Confused when they hear
“Hey! Garcia! Get over here!”
Our favorite Nobel Laureate is back with another touching ode on Bardball. Maybe he should hang out with the guys in the Baseball Project and get some recording done! (This one was written with my friend, Jim Siergey.)
Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “I Shall Be Released”
They say ev’ryone can be replaced
Yet every lefty is still here
So I try to play second base
Or third or short or anywhere
. I only bat .190
. So my chances do decrease
. Any day now, any day now
. I shall be released
They say ev’ry man needs protection
They say you keep your eyes on that ball
The marketing guys aren’t my rooting section
My agent won’t return my calls
. I’m in the B-game lineup
. Starting to feel it’s just a tease
. Any day now, any day now,
. I shall be released
Standing next to me around the cage
Is a stud too young to buy a beer
He wants to gain the wisdom that comes with age
But I just want to play another year
. I see the rookies rise up
. Big potential, play for cheap
. Any day now, any day now,
. I shall be released
It’s tradition on Opening Day:
The Prez puts the first ball in play,
But with his miniscule mitts,
The Donald just quits
And tweets, “Baseball’s for losers anyway.”