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Great Week for Baseball — and Bardball

As you fans know, this has been a helluva week for postseason baseball. I’ve had the obligation (yes, this is what I tell my wife) to watch my hometown team as it struggles mightily against the scary Texas Rangers. How many one run and two run victories can either team survive? There have been no laffers, no routs, nothing that would make you turn the game off early.

And as usual with the postseason, the expected heroes (Verlander, Cabrera, Hamilton) have not been nearly as productive as the also-rans (Nelson Cruz, Delmon Young). Why this happens every postseason is worthy of someone’s research. Maybe the heroes are too exhausted, or too distractible from all their interviews, or put too much pressure on themselves to single-handedly carry the team. Whatever it is, it’s what makes October baseball so awesome.

And it’s been a great week for limericks at Bardball.com. Earlier in the week, I relaxed the rule of only one post per day, and the limericks have been plentiful, in both posts and comments. And shame on us, we haven’t been able to give any space to poems on the Brewers-Cardinals series (well, I do have one lim on the Cardinals, but because it came from a Cubs fan, it’s really nasty). Below is a sample of one of our better ones, by Hilary Barta, who also runs the site LimerWrecks. Come on over and check it all out before the World Series. That’s gonna be a yawner, I tell ya.

That hit over Beltre was crazy
A bit of the old upsy-daisy
The Rangers were trounced
when Detroit’s way it bounced,
still kicking like Cameron Swayze.

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Latest up on Bardball

I haven’t posted my poems from Bardball in the past couple weeks, but for those who don’t feel like going over there, I thought I’d bring one over here.

Today’s was inspired by last week’s passing of manager Dick Williams, an old=school hardass who achieved some marvelous things with his players (and, though I couldn’t manage to work it into the poem, quit the Oakland A’s after two pennants and a World Series because he couldn’t stand working for owner Charlie Finley). RIP, Dick.

When Oakland’s Swingin’ A’s were swingin’,
A hard-playing, mustachioed team–
Williams quit after winning two titles.
The skipper never changed or mellowed
In Expos white or Padres yellow.
Old-school grit, speed and defense vital.
Angels in heaven might hear him scream,
“You with the harp! You call that singin’?”

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Well, This is Nice to Receive!

Not much interesting material comes in the regular mail these days. And I’m sure you’re all familiar with the solicitations that are produced by machines that make it appear the envelope has been hand-written.

So imagine how I felt when I received a small envelope last Friday, postmarked from Oakland, CA, a city in which I don’t know anyone. And imagine how I felt when I opened it and found this inside:

Yep, that’s right, Michael Chabon thinks BARDBALL is “very cool”! He’s one of my favorite writers in the entire civilized world, and he took a moment to write — IN PEN! — that he thought our little baseball poetry blog is very cool. If you haven’t read his Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, then you are depriving yourself of a massive treat. I also enjoyed the hell out of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, Summerland, and Maps & Legends.

I mailed him a copy of the 2010 Bardball chapbook in the spring, with no greater intention than thinking he might enjoy it. And spank my ass and call me Bieber, but he did! This is going up on the wall, next to my fan letters from Ernie Harwell and a certain ex-president who will not be named but did get impeached.

After all, I can’t namedrop ALL DAY! He he he!!

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They’re Dropping Like Flies

My first new baseball poem of the year, up today on Bardball:

Spring Injury Report, 2011

Zach Grienke’s arm is hinky.
Jake Peavy’s feeling skeevy.
Adam Wainwright’s wing ain’t right.
Rich Harden’s asked for pardon.
Brad Lidge is off a smidge.
That goes ditto for Johnny Cueto.

And an inflamed elbow is causing
Pain for Jason Isringhausen.

Thank God for March,
So these great apes
Have one less month
To fall out of shape.

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Happy Belated Birthday, Ernie!

Don’t know where the week went (or maybe I do, but aint tellin’), so I apologize for a lack of posting. I even forgot to wish Ernie Harwell a happy birthday, which would’ve been on Tuesday.

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A Salute to Sparky Anderson

The Tigers have lost another legendary personality. George Lee Anderson, better known and loved as Sparky, has died at the age of 76. Along with the loss of Ernie Harwell earlier in the year, it’s a one-two punch to the gut for Bengals fans. Sparky was the genuine article, by all accounts, and never forgot his humble beginnings. As such, he was the perfect fit for a place like Detroit, a place with a very finely tuned bullshit meter (not that it stops them from electing fools and felons, naturally).

For a terrific appreciation of Sparky, check out Joe Posnansky’s excellent piece in Sports Illustrated. It will tell you all you need to know about why this guy was such a classic. However, I’m waiting to read in even one of these tribute articles that Sparky was a member of the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame, for his minor league playing days in Toronto Maple Leafs and Montreal Royals. (The picture with this post came from their website.)

And so, I felt the need to salute Sparky with a poem on Bardball. It just started with small phrases and kept going. It seems very fitting. Sparky was not an educated man, so a flowery tribute would’ve rung hollow. So long, Sparky. The Hot Stove League in heaven just got livelier.

The snowy hair
The doleful stare
The mangled speech
The subtle preach
The dubious start
The gentle heart
The hook that stings
Three Series rings
The postgame pipe
The misplaced hype
Shaggy dog stories
Humble glories
A light gone dark
We’ll miss you, Spark

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Nighty-Night, White Sox

So the Chicago White Sox finally managed to mathematically eliminate themselves last night by losing to the Oakland A’s. Way to back into it, guys. Holding the door to the post-season open to the Twins. I didn’t think such politeness was such a feature of the South Side, and of the Good Guys Wearing Black.

What a frustrating year. When the Sox were firing on all cylinders in midsummer, they were playing the kind of baseball I love: dominant pitching and defense, a little small-ball mixed in with a dramatic game-winning home run once in a while. But such consistency is beyond these guys apparently.

We can be grateful, though, that that former Macy’s balloon Manny Ramirez completely embarrassed himself with his lack of hitting in the final weeks. No temptation to sign him again, I trust. Brush up on your Japanese, Manny.

So this team might get broken apart when the season ends, which would be a shame. I like the make-up of the team. But I doubt they’ll let Paulie Konerko go. He’s such the complete face of the franchise that he should be carried off on a shield after giving up his final iota of strength. I hope they keep AJ, who always makes it interesting. Bobby Jenks? Yeah, probably time for him to move on; he’s had five seasons to show himself as not-a-headcase since the World Series, and with his other injuries, I’d say it’s time to look for another closer.

As a cap to the season, I’d like to offer a prayer for Sox fans to repeat to themselves when they kneel down by their beds tonight. Posted on Bardball last week, but that was premature. Or at least completely realistic.

Now we lay us down to sleep.
Who really thought that we could sweep?

We thought we had a chance at Central,
If Ozzie kept from going mental.

God, forgive us of our sins
And tell us why you made the Twins.

Tell us why we let go Thome,
Then brought in that dreadlocked phony.

Thank you for our newfound heroes,
For Edwin Jackson, Alex Rios,

Thank you for our older guard,
Thanks for Paulie going yard.

Please keep the squad from getting creaky.
Make sure A.J. keeps playing sneaky.

Now we’ll watch the Hawks and Bears,
Trying to ignore our fears

Of Kenny really signing Manny
And Ozzie going to Miami.

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Bud Selig, on Bardball

I wrote this a couple weeks ago, but never posted it here. Thought some of you might like it.

THE LEGACY OF BUD SELIG

Tons of money for the owners.
Ignorance of player-dopers.

More exploitative contract bids
For dirt-poor Caribbean kids.

A baseball classic for the world
Where U.S. players rarely hurled.

With anti-trust still holding fast,
Small-market teams still finish last.

Now, Milwaukee celebrates this schwanz
With a Selig statute cast in bronze.

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Ron Santo, Font of Baseball Wisdom

From Bardball this week:

The Cubs and Cards are tied at two.
Your heart is beating like a drum.
The Cubbies could still win this thing.
Professor Santo opines, “Umm.”

A walk and then a stolen base–
Is Sorey slowing down a bit?
Should Castro bunt or swing away?
Our sage says, “Cubs could use a hit.”

Two outs with men on first and third.
The pitch scoots past Molina–HOW?
Alphonso races home! Cubs Win!
Mr. Insightful stammers, “Wow!”

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Fun in the Minor Leagues

Posted today on Bardball, a true account of a game I attended last year at Fifth Third Park, home of Grand Rapids’ minor league Tigers affiliate, the West Michigan Whitecaps.

Too much fun. If you haven’t gone to a minor league baseball game recently, you’re missing out on a lot, including pork chop sandwiches and lots of local color.

Remember, Bardball exists only because of reader submissions, so if the baseball muse strikes you, submit it to the site and we’ll put it up.

Superhero Night with the West Michigan Whitecaps

To augment the human-sized, foam-rubber eyeball footraces
(Sponsored by a local optometrist)
And the hot wieners bazooka’d into the crowd
(Brought to you by an insurance agency)
And the horrible-hued disco dance contest
(Courtesy of Q-107–”You Can’t Stop The Rock”),
The special events crew rented costumes
Of Captain America and The Hulk,
Complete with stitched-in muscles,
And waved and flexed and danced and clowned.

In between,
Pitchers strained,
Batters swung,
Fielders pounced,
Dreaming of the show.

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The Armando Galarraga Saga

Last night’s blown call by umpire Jim Joyce, which took away Armando Galarraga’s perfect game, will be talked about for years, by bitter Tiger fans crying about how their team can’t get a break, and paranoids and conspiracy fans everywhere.

But I’ve argued before that baseball is filled with human error (hell, if there’s a statistic for “Errors”. then it must be a big part of the game). I’m not too much in favor of the instant replay, though it seems to have been integrated well into the action. My heart wants Galarraga to get credit for his efforts, but my head says that it is what it is. I can’t start changing my attitude just because a Tiger was involved, and just because the umpire got the yips and got confused about THE ONLY THING HE’S GOT TO PAY ATTENTION TO WHEN HE’S WORKING ON FIRST BASE!!!!!!

Ahem. Sorry.

I was frankly impressed with both the player and the umpire this morning. How many people in public life, caught in a big mistake, just come out and say it was their fault, and that their decision will haunt them the rest of their lives? (When was the last time you heard a politician or a CEO, our national “leaders”, say such a thing, at least when it still mattered?)

And how many players showed Galarraga’s grace and character in the face of a crushing disappointment? My hat’s off to him.

Here’s a little piece of doggerel I whipped up for the brouhaha on Bardball this morning, hoping to earn points for timeliness if not :

Nobody’s Perfect

After the call that the umpire blew,
What could Armando Galarraga do?

Drag him to court in front of a judge,
Since now his market value was smudged?

Argue some kind of liberal plot?
Threaten to meet Joyce in the parking lot?

Hire a hit man to mangle his mug?
Break down on “Oprah” to get some O-hugs?

Threaten his wife, kids, brothers and sisters?
Publish his home phone number on Twitter?

Beg ol’ Bud Selig for some Commissioner’s magic?
Hire some flacks for his story so tragic?

Buy off some pols to rewrite the rules?
Sic Milton Bradley on his family jewels?

But Armando showed character larger than fame.
He smiled, shook hands and went on with the game.

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More Unwritten Rules of Baseball

Put this up yesterday on Bardball.com. The reference to the Alex Rodriguez/Dallas Braden dustup is more than a month old, but it’s not always easy to be as timely and topical over there as we’d like. Lots of voices to corral, and egos to massage, and styles to balance. But really, Bardball gets better with every season, if I do say so myself.

Don’t congratulate a teammate by faking a high five and delivering a hard nad shot.

Don’t talk about racism except in the context of how Jackie Robinson eliminated it.

Rhapsodize about the integrity of the game, but don’t make any big deal about desperately poor Dominican 15-year-olds being drafted by shady agents and advised by “scouts.”

Don’t try and bunt against a pitcher pitching a perfect game unless, you know, you’re trying to help your team score. Like you’re paid to do.

On-field displays of excitement add too much energy and character to the game, and so must be avoided.

Don’t ever criticize a veteran teammate in the media, even when he lets down the squad. Only rookies can be criticized.

Don’t comment on the herd mentality and obsequious jocksniffery of sportswriters.

And however long you play or watch the game….

Don’t expect to like Alex Rodriguez.

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RIP Ernie Harwell

Now the Tigers’ voice has been quieted.
He saw teams that won, and fans that rioted.
He saw a man play in the bigs after jail.
He saw a boy pitching tell his baseball a tale.
He saw a flawed man win 31 games,
The careers of good men go up in flames.
He watched a beloved ballpark decay
And the City of Wheels fall by the way.
Yet he knew in the end it was only a game.
God’s plan ignores things like money and fame.
A bat’s just a branch, a mitt is just leather.
Baseball’s true worth is bringing people together.

Some night, when a hit curves decidedly foul,
We’ll hear a faint voice with a sweet Georgia drawl,
Say, chuckling with fathomless love for it all,
“A man from Paradise just caught that ball.”

For a transcript of the Dodgers’ Vin Scully last night, as he reminisced about Ernie, visit the Sons of Steve Garvey blog.

Ernie, we’ll miss you.

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Sexy New Poem on Bardball

Well, I don’t know if the poem is sexy, but it’s about sex.

And I don’t know if having sex in the men’s bathroom at Comiskey Park on Opening Day is sexy — in fact, it sounds like a nightmare, and a great an STD and a visit to 26th and California — but it did inspire a poem. It’s up today on Bardball.

South Side Fireworks, Inside

On Opening Day at the Cell,
Amidst the ravening horde,
The men’s room witnessed a tryst ‘twixt
A South Side lady and lord.

All the prudes and official blue-noses
Who by this action were floored
Should think of the White Sox’s condition
And be grateful that somebody scored.

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Tigers Opening Day 2010

I’d been battling allergies for a couple of weeks and was completely drained of energy. On the night before, I played host to a book signing and stayed out til midnight with the literary types singing karaoke at a lesbian bar.

So, what was the best thing to do to stay healthy? Of course! Wake up at 5 AM and drive to Detroit for the Tigers Home Opener!

I’ve now been to more Opening Days at Comerica Park than I ever did at Tiger Stadium. I wish that weren’t the case, but I never was into skipping school, and generally had a good excuse not to go during college years. Then I moved to Chicago and tried to pretend I didn’t care. Now, it’s too late for the Stadium, which was finally and completely knocked down last summer. But Old Comiskey’s gone too, and Yankee Stadium. Those fights are done, time to get on with living.

It was an overcast day, temperature at game time was 38. But my friend Gary sold me one of his very sweet upper deck seats that looked right up the first base line.

The wind was minimal, the company was good, and the Tigers beat the Indians 5-3. (One thing I wish they’d do is STOP singing “God Bless America” during the seventh inning stretch. Come on, guys, just quit it. It’s depressing and pompous and no one connects it with 9/11 anymore.)

Ernie Harwell wasn’t there, for the first time since 1960 (minus his lost year when former GM Bo Schembechler fired him). Ernie is suffering from pancreatic cancer, and probably won’t make it to see Opening Day 2011. Once again, a reminder that time marches on.

It was a crazy scene in the streets after the game. I haven’t seen so many people completely shitfaced in a long, long time. Not just 20-yr-olds, but people in their 40s and 50s, who oughta know their limits by now. They were being dragged around by their friends like it was “Weekend at Bernie’s” time, literally vomiting and pissing their pants. Someone in our group speculated that it might show the economy is doing better, which would put people in a better mood. Then again, he thought it might show the economy is in worse shape, and people are cutting loose in frustration. I don’t know which is true, but watching some idiot take a swing at a cop in full daylight was more than a little pathetic. Every big public event doesn’t HAVE to turn into Mardi Gras, does it?

After the game and a little beer reception, a bunch of us headed to the Polish Village Cafe on Yemans, a terrific place in Hamtramck. (I also now know more Polish restaurants in Detroit than I do in Chicago–sad but true! I still intend to drag my kids out to one soon, just to tick off that box.)

Then we grabbed a couple beers at Skipper’s Hamtown Bar on Conant, which is run by a truly great innkeeper and has a fridge stocked with all things good, including Bell’s Two-Hearted Ale, possibly my favorite malt beverage. Skipper is an old neighborhood guy who knows all the politicians and went to school with half of them. It’s a warm, friendly place full of crazy Detroit people. Anyone who doubts that the city will survive should hang out there for a night and listen to the patrons and their love of the Motor City.

One of my favorite reasons for going to Detroit is crashing at the house of my friends Gary and Vicki. They live in Indian Village, in a beautiful house designed by a young Albert Kahn, the famed industrial architect. Indian Village is a beautiful neighborhood that reeks of the class and money that Detroit enjoyed in the first quarter of the last century. (Surrounding it is some pretty rough terrain, let alone wasteland, but enough has been written about that lately.) It is truly striking to see the remnants of that era and realize how much money the car makers were bringing to the city then. Now, you can buy a 5000 sq ft house in Indian Village for the low six figures. Or even less, although many speculators swooped in during the housing collapse.

When I was young, my dad kept a boat on the Detroit River, and occasionally we visited people’s houses in elegant, old-school neighborhoods like Indian Village and Grayhaven, which had a canal and boathouses for each of the properties. Hanging around near Belle Isle brings back those memories. Just looking down Gary’s street, with the spring trees barely stopping the sunshine, you can see the Detroit River rushing by, same as always. We ate breakfast Saturday morning at a pancake breakfast at the Jefferson Avenue Presbyterian Church, a gorgeous old place with friendly people.

Visiting Detroit almost always brings back large waves of nostalgic feelings and memories. This year, it didn’t. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe the final demolition of Tiger Stadium somehow stuck one last nail in that coffin. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about what the future may hold for Detroit, how Mayor Bing is hoping to relocate people away from blighted areas so the city provide services to a dispersed and shrinking population, how “decay porn” is attracting the notice of all the news organizations around the world. Figuring out where the place will end up is a confusing business.

It’s much easier just to weigh the Tigers chances for the World Series, now that they’ve lost Granderson, Polanco and Rodney.