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.
My name is Curtis, this is my gun,
Just try and stop me from having my fun.
I need a haircut, my gal some ink done,
And a bacon chili burger with ranch-style Funyuns.
Hey, you govs! We the People have spoken
And don’t give a shit about public contagion!
It’s called FREEDOM, pal, very hard-won,
Though your pussification’s already begun.
You see Old Glory? THOSE COLORS DON’T RUN!
We’ll face any threat, even teeny weeny ones.
Trump said the virus dies in the sun
And is out golfing now — America’s not done!
We’ll come back stronger, give or take a lung
And clear out defectives. Job overdue: Done!
Real Americans will survive–loud, white, rotund–
Knowing we’re right because of our guns.
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!
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.
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?
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
All through spring training, it’s a Dylan Festival at Bardball. If you didn’t know the Nobel Laureate is a baseball fan — and I have no idea myself — you can believe it now, because how else could he have written so many songs that can be turned into forecasts for the upcoming season?
Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Sucking in the Wind”
How many innings must Verlander pitch
to have them destroyed by the pen?
How many times must Miggy get on
to be left on the base by Upton?
How many weeks before Ausmus is canned–
that’s not an “if”, that’s a “when”
The answer, my friend, is 2017
When the Tigers will be sucking in the wind
How many balls will Martinez misjudge
and watch as they roll to the wall?
How many years will poor V-Mart DH
as his trot slows down to a crawl?
How many years must fans grumble and wince
before this team wins in the fall?
The answer, my friend, is 2017
When the Tigers will be sucking in the wind
The reclusive, petulant, intermittently-English-speaking Sammy Sosa gave an interview recently, lamenting that his crappy attitude with fans and teammates has made him a pariah in the Cubs organization. In addition to comparing himself (of course!) to a suffering Jesus, he also bragged that he put Chicago “on the map”. Which was news to a lot of us.
So when I get a fat slow pitch like that, I have to pen a reaction to it for Bardball:
Sammy Sosa, the Founder of Chicago
Leave aside the famed DuSable
Who thought he wore this feather in his cap.
We’ll forgive you this historical bobble,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Forget Jim Thompson and Hinky Dink Kenna
Who lay the town in corruption’s lap.
They came and went, but at the center,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Dion O’Banion and Al Capone
Made sure the suds were e’er on tap.
Those slobs can’t call this town their own–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Sure, Sandburg, Bellow, Studs could write,
Curtis Mayfield was a soulful chap,
Muddy Waters was a man, all right,
But Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
I’ll admit MJ could play some hoops.
Hack, Ernie, Big Hurt and Pudge could slap
A few hits around, but no big whoops–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Today, over at Bardball:
Moon, Swoon, Baseball in June
On this beautiful summer day in June
The Royals rise and the White Sox swoon
The Astros still dream of their trip to the moon
The Red Sox hope they aren’t peaking too soon
While the Yanks obsess over things picayune
The Rangers and Jays field their share of goons
Tampa ponders a move to Saskatoon. . .And Epstein’s still the smartest guy in the room.
Your only source for timely baseball doggerel:
White Sox Thanks for Danks
Dear Lord, we now give thanks
That your boy, our John Danks,
Is feeling stronger every outing
And confident about an
Improvement in delivery
That’ll sure make batters quivery.
We’re grateful that he never quits
And seemed unfazed by all those hits
He serves with regularity
(Another branch of White Sox Charities?)
And his positivity with the team–
He remembers just what “Grinder” means
And loves this game more than anyone–
But it’d be great if he ever won.