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Instant Replay Creates Perfect World

Posted yesterday on Bardball, in honor of the home runs called back in Wednesday’s games:

Now that cameras can detect and correct
Our errors and human frailty,
I call for a replay of

Fidrych talking to the ball,
Reggie hitting in October,
Bob Gibson staring,
Koufax stretching,
Veeck laughing,

DiMaggio’s war years,
And Hank Greenberg’s,

And 1994, which could have saved the Expos,
And spared us the Nationals,

And Cap Anson shutting his damned mouth
And Buck O’Neil playing for the Cubs,
Satchel Paige for the A’s,
And Cool Papa Bell for the Cardinals.

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A Poem for Mark Fidrych

Up today at BARDBALL.COM:

The Wings of the Bird

Every kid thinks that he
Could mow down the heart of the Yankees order
If given the chance,
And someday everybody gets that chance,

And it’s good luck to talk to the ball,
And cheers are love that never dies,
And the world would love you if you showed them who you really are,
And magic can happen at any time.

That kid never dies.
That kid was the Bird.

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God’s Memo to the Detroit Tigers

For background on this issue, check out the Detroit Free Press:

For all the times you’ve prayed to me,
Beseeching for a victory–
“Let him strike out,” “We need this hit” –
And clogged my in-box with this stuff,

You choose to hold Opening Day—
Praise be to me—on Good Friday?
People, watch you don’t make me mad,
Or I’ll give the Tiges what the Lions had.

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Poetry on Steroids

THE MUSE AND THE JUICE: An Ode to ‘Roids

Despite the pressures of my muse,
While writing this, I did not juice.
I might be subtler, more profound,
With cultured people’s praises crowned,
If performance enhancers I had downed.

Yet every morn I grab my pen.
I’m swinging for the fence again,
Honing mood and tone and meter,
Shunning erudite Velveeta,
While the gimlet-eyed all mutter, “Cheater.”

If offered Poet Growth Hormone,
Speaking for myself alone,
I’d shun sub-dermal shots in favor
Of a potion with robust flavor
Robert Burns was said to savor.

Boost the power of my thinkage?
Not when the tincture causes shrinkage
To my oeuvre. Tis too great a risk
I’ll be marooned on a copy desk,
My good name and my asterisk.

UPDATE: Please check the comments to this post for a poetical rebuttal from Jim U-Boat, The Poet Laureate of Calumet City, Illinois.

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Pitchers and Catchers

Okay, I’ll give in. Our coldest snowiest winter in memory is probably over, and birdies and buds will soon appear, which brings warmth to even the iciest soul. And there’s always this….

LIFE IS GOOD

Winter’s been raw as a campout in Banff.
Your new basement walls are moldy and damp.
Your drapes caught fire from a knocked over lamp—

Relax!
Pitchers and catchers are reporting to camp.

Your check-writing hand’s developed a cramp,
Your bills are all due and you ain’t got a stamp,
Creditors cling to your neck like a clamp—

Smile!
Pitchers and catchers are reporting to camp.

Your yard now faces a new freeway ramp.
Your son’s engaged to a gold-digging tramp.
Your “guitar hero” neighbor’s just bought a new amp—

Life is good!
Pitchers and catchers are reporting to camp.

I posted this yesterday on Bardball even though it’s a rerun from 2008, because it’s factually true, because I like it, and because I run the site. When the baseball season really begins, we’ll be posting more poems there. And the big news is, we’re in the works to create a podcast of material, for all you folks too busy to read. So don’t forget us in the coming weeks.

Baseball Prospectus just picked the Cubs to finish first in their division, and the White Sox last, so there should be a lot of emotion running through the Windy City this summer.

On the other hand, what does the Prospectus’ Nate Silver know? Did he predict all 50 states in last year’s election? No? Only 49? Then he better go home and tweak his algorithm, as the girls at U of C probably told him a time or two.