In honor of Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886. In 1887, the first Negro League was formed.
Tell all the stats but tell them slant —
Success in the baseball Circuit lies
Too bright for our unconscious bias
The Truth’s superb surprise is
Like a ball hit lightening quick
With Josh Gibson atop
Ty Cobb’s dazzling batting record
Or every fan be blind —
It might be …
In 1945, Harry, the great-grandpater
Told beer-fueled stories about Cardinals like Stan the Man.
It could be …
Harry’s son, Skip, made calls straighter,
As straight as a Braves arrow off the bat of Hammerin’ Hank.
It is!
Skip’s boy is a charismatic Chip off the old block.
First with Gramps and the Cubs; then Dad and the Braves; and now the Cards.
A home run!
In 2024, Chris joined the Caray MLB broadcast stock.
A’s fans hear echoes in this descendant of baseball’s royal family of bards.
Holy Cow!
These joyful announcers hit an inside-the-ballpark family-four-bagger.
Calling games for the A’s, Cards, Cubs, Braves, and Sox with swagger.
Take Me Out To The Ball Game!!!!
Four generations talkin’ baseball lore.
Harry Christopher Caray: I, II, III, IV.
AN
-side-
In- -thE
park
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Inning 1: Zero hits off pitching phenom Paul Skenes;
Three Cubs go down swinging.
Inning 2: Praise the name pronounced Skeenz;
Three more Ks: Ka-ching, Ka-ching, Ka-chinging.
Inning 3: He throws the ball 100 miles per hour;
“Only” one strikeout, but Cubs still have no hits.
Inning 4: From where does the kid get that power?
Two more strikeouts; batters flailing like twits.
Inning 5: Pitch after pitch, Skenes dominates;
A walk spoils his bid for perfection.
Inning 6: Comparisons whispered about all-time greats;
Quick-hook manager says, “You’re done, son.”
Innings 7, 8 and 9: Wrigley Field turns so bitter;
Pirates fans grumble, “Coulda been a no-hitter!”
I taught my T-Ball-playing granddaughter
To throw balls straight like streaming water.
First, the four-seam grip.
She asked, “Got another tip?”
Now, get your feet in place.
She laughed, “Kinda like a race?”
Third, point your glove at me.
She pointed, “Sting like a bee?
Then she threw a perfect strike.
I was so proud of the little tyke.
I tossed it back way, way over her head.
She shoulda been teaching me instead.
She threw the ball like Sandy Koufax.
I screwed the ball like Steve “Bleeping” Sax.
Ten wild, wild throws later, with hands on hips,
I confessed to my granddaughter that I had the yips.
Chaupai (quatrain) poetry celebrating Mangla and Rajesh’s 40th anniversary on Earth Day, April 22, 2024.
My children’s mother loves all four of them dearly, holds them closely,
Just as Mother Earth loves her seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
As a fan, she loves all sports: Big Four, Olympics, and kabaddi;
As a teacher, she loves all students: quiet, chatty, short, and tall.
Holding my breath, I ask Mother Earth if there is a favorite.
She holds my head in her hands and shakes it like a Raggedy Ann.
“How can I choose one over the other; a child is not a chit.”
I reply, “My Queen, not our kids, but sports. Does one claim you its fan?”
She sighs. “It cannot be football, for it is violent and vile.
How can I root for players whose handsome faces I cannot see?
No, Fall’s game that blitzes and throws bombs and bullets raises my bile.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is too high a fee.”
She freezes. “It is not hockey, for it neglects too many shades.
How can such a lovely sport be so limited in its pigment?
While it’s scintillating when pucks spring off of slap shots from curved blades,
I look around the ice, and skins brown and black are but a figment.”
She smiles. “It could be basketball; just see the boys and girls in shorts.
To be sure, there is so much beauty in this game of balls and nets.
Still, there is something unforgiving about wood and concrete courts.
To defend against Tex Winter’s Triangle Offense, one plays chess.”
She glows. “I should not choose between my offspring, for they all bring joy.
But it is baseball. It is baseball. Yes, it is our dear baseball.
After Winter’s snow melts, on grassy fields bats and balls we deploy.
A game for all ages and seasons, from Spring to Summer to Fall.”
It’s the last letter
In pitching’s “struck”.
So you and I better
Wish Clayton good luck.
There were many others
Who could hurl through a bat.
Our band of K-brothers
Includes Koufax and Kaat.
(This poem excludes
Those facing the mound.
So sadly, Kailua’s
Kila Ka’aihue ain’t around.)
Whether lefty or righty
Pitchers stand on the hill.
Looking awfully mighty
They slurve that pill.
Dallas Keuchel, one fears,
Has thrown his last MLB K.
So in his final year(s)
Let’s honor Kershaw . . . OK?
(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.”
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.”
Say it ain’t so, Sho.
A Rose by any other
Name would bet as foul.
