A Baseball Eulogy: Total Eclipse of the Game

(In appreciation of the April 8, 2024 solar eclipse.)

Baseball was my reliable Chicago sun:
Warm summer days, filled with run after run.

Basketball was my Windy City moon:
Cool winter nights, swishing nets into June.

My heart had space for Doubleday and Naismith’s games;
My heroes in Cooperstown and Springfield’s Halls of Fame.

But my steadfast true love
Began with bat, ball, and glove.

Once upon a time, Whitman waxed serious,
“The game of ball is glorious.”
The poet couldn’t imagine “base” falling apart.
There’s nothing I would lament, for
Nothing could eclipse my game of ball.

Then a madness occurred;
Began with Magic and Bird.

Ernie Banks’ around-the-bases smile,
Was displaced by MJ’s high-flying guile.

Today’s kids are in far too much of a hurry,
Thrilling to threes by sweet Steph Curry.

They know not the wonder of a triple play,
As rare as the moon getting in the sun’s way.

“Once upon a time, there was light in our life,
But now there’s only love in the dark.”*
Is there nothing that can save us from
A total eclipse of the game?

*Bonnie Tyler and Jim Steinman, who sang and wrote “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

Opening Day(s)

This year’s Opening Day
Was an odd Double Play.

March 20 opened with OD-One;
A delight if you were a Korean.

A week later was OD-Two;
A more traditional red, white, and blue.

What would Tinker, Evers, and Chance say
About baseball’s globalized Opening Day?

As Ernie Banks might smilingly argue,
“Fellas, here or there, let’s play two.”

Oh(tani), No!

Say it ain’t so, Sho.
A Rose by any other
Name would bet as foul.

A Spring in My Step

Ping!

I hear aluminum,
Smacking leather.
It’s T-Ball time.

Winter to spring,
Changing weather.
I feel fine.

Pitchers and catchers
Are warming up.
In Arizona.

Umps and fans are
Are hollering BATTERUP!
In Florida.

Though a grandfather,
I’m a child again.
Playing in the grass.

She’s my granddaughter,
Playing in the rain.
So quickly seasons pass.

Snap!

MLB All-Jingle-Bells Team

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza and James Finn Garner

1B  Josh Bell
2B  Juan Bell
SS  Les Bell
3B  Buddy Bell

LF  George Bell
CF  Cool Papa Bell
RF  Beau Bell

C   Herman Bell, Terry Bell

LHP   Chad Bell, Eric Bell, Fred Bell, Lefty Bell, Ralph Bell
RHP   Bill “Ding Dong” Bell, Cliff Bell, Gary Bell, George Bell, Heath Bell, Hi Bell, Rob Bell, Trevor Bell

MGR   Jayce Tingley

Doppelgänger: Catch Me If You Con

Catchers are a con,
With the masks that they don.

They move outside pitches in,
Making the umpire’s head spin.

Like a leathery snapping turtle,
Their fat gloves make pitches fertile.

Fingers flash sneaky signs,
Keeping balls out of Wrigley’s vines.

But what catchers really hide,
Is that they have another side:

Their future after catching daily trouble,
May emerge as a post-playing days’ double.

Eyes darting, they see the whole field,
Imagining that someday they will wield

A baton like Connie, Gabby, Girardi, and Bochy,
And, of course, that wise backstop/leader named Yogi,

Who said, “It ain’t over till it’s over,”
Maybe meaning careers evolve forever.

Perhaps suggesting that a catcher is
To a big-league manager,

As a caterpillar eying the blue sky is
To an imperial monarch butterfly.

“It ain’t over till it’s over” is the last sentence of “Double Play,” Dr. Oza’s novel which will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press. Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University.

Bruce “Cooperstown” Bochy

Lost more than he won.
But Bruce won when it mattered:
Managed October.

Born to Win Wild

With apologies to Mars Bonfire and Steppenwolf

Get your players runnin’,
Head out on the basepaths.
Lookin’ for a Wild Series,
Whoever wins 4 of 7.

Yeah, D-backs and Rangers,
Make the World Series your own.
Score all your runs at once,
And explode the playoff brackets.

Like Malamud’s “Natural,”
You were born, born a wild card.
You can climb so high,
You’ll never wanna die.

Born to win Wild!
Born to win Wild!

Houston: Lost at Home

In 2019, playing baseball’s cheaters,
The Nats won the Series on the road.
Still tagged as the sport’s deadbeaters,
The Astros carried the warts of a toad.

In 2023, with Bochy managing heroic,
The Rangers won at Minute Maid.
With Dusty chewing on a toothpick,
The Astros prayed and flayed.

Sure, they have 2017 and 2022,
But 2017 was banged on a trash can,
And 2022 was too good to be true,
For a team that warranted a ban.

Stealing signs left the ‘Stros stained
And unable to win at home.
Perhaps they should’ve remained
Hapless but honest in the Dome.

George Carlin famously suggested,
“In baseball the object is to go home.”
But when your Series ring is contested,
You are banished to aimlessly roam.

Oriole Wings Clipped

In memory of Louise Glück, 1943-2023, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature

When Louise was a young-adult,
The Orioles were high-flying.

Dave, Jim, and Mike were 20-game winners;
Brooks, Davey, and Paul were Gold-Glovers;
Boog and Frank slugged homers to grateful fans;
Earl shoved dirt on umpires’ cleats.

Days before Louise died,
The Orange Birds were swept.
Balty fans wept salty tears of sadness:

“We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.
How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?”

(Referencing Glück’s “Mock Orange”)