Teammates

The stories say
that in the beginning
(that'd be 1869)
there were the Red Stockings,
first team to openly combine
love of the game with love of money.

Harry Wright was their leader
and their pitcher.
He led them from Cincinnati to
greener commons in Boston.
In 1877, Jim O'Rourke patrolled
the outfield behind Harry.
Red Stockings become Red Caps.

Orator Jim's trip to Cooperstown
started in Connecticut
and wound
from Boston to Providence
and Buffalo and New York.
While giant in stature,
Wee Willie manned hot corner.
Red Caps become Beaneaters.

Keeler moved north to south
hitting it where they weren't.
From New York to Baltimore,
he joined a new league
and moved back north.
An Austro-Hungarian took
the mound.
Old country, newly yankee.
Beaneaters become Doves.

Jack Quinn nee Pajkos,
from apple to hub,
charm city to big shoulders
and back again.
In dotage he visits the series.
Before then he shares
the bullpen with Red.
Doves become Rustlers,
Rustlers become Braves.

Charles Herbert Ruffing
ace of Gehrig and DiMaggio's staff.
Pennant winner, hall of famer,
His last year on the Yanks
he pitched to a young catcher
named Yogi.
Braves become Bees.
Bees become Braves.

The plates began to shift
as Yogi crouched, Buddha-like
and an impenetrable dynasty
crumbles at last.
Greener pastures again beckon,
Browns become Orioles,
Senators become Twins.
Yogi catches what
Al Downing throws.
Boston becomes a one sock town,
Milwaukee tastes as great as its name.

Downing winds down
in Chavez Ravine.
Rookie Jeffrey Leonard
tries to catch on.
Peripatetic Braves lose
their taste for Milwaukee
and take root in Atlanta.

Leonard is workmanlike
and makes his way to Seattle
where the kid is at play
in the very same outfield.
There is no doubt
Junior Griffey will catch on.

Griffey still plays.
Does he remember sharing
a team, sharing a uniform
with Derek Lowe?
Did they talk about Jeffrey Leonard?
Have they heard of Al Downing?

Derek Lowe now works in Atlanta
for Harry Wright's old team.
World without end.

Let's Play Two

Older than fire,
monsters midway
from Cap to Gabby,
they won more than any
had seen before
or since.
Who ever would tinker with their chance?

Reality set in,
then surreality.
Beaten by Boston
before berating Babe.
Was the called shot his true curse?

From black cat to Bartman,
since they were last champs
the Wandering Fan could have
walked from Addison
to the Moon
and back
three times
while still getting 8 hours of sleep a night.

Still they confine themselves
in an ivy-covered whale of a park
and root steeped in the old style.
The saddest of possible words
are never
"take me out to the ballgame."
Go Cubs, go.

10,000 Losses

They have lost over 10,000 games.
That's really rather a lot.
A century's worth of 100-loss years
in a history not that much longer
than a century.

Do the fans make the team
or does
the team make the fanatic?
Broadly like bullies
arrested for battery,
rather seeming at home
in the WC
on the whole.

On the other hand
it is something of the
nature of baseball,
where murderers lose
one-third of their fights
and hitmen miss
two-thirds of their hits.
More often today's heroes
have been kids watching
history's best whiz by.

Their name is mild
upon reflection, evoking
Donahue at first,
Glass at the hot corner,
Collins behind the plate.

10,000 losses are a lot.
To their credit, they've
been able to focus
a lot more of late
on getting 11 wins
in October.

Big Six and Iron Man

Apple ere bay, polo ere candle.
Giants walked the earth in Gotham
and visited towns like
Providence and Louisville.

They took in a waif
they could not kill.
Big Six and Iron Man
would win their share.
But baseball's most enduring
boner and muff
left fans tittering in lesser cities.

Babe turned Sultan.
Little Napoleon drove the upstarts
across the Harlem
but early victories
could not be sustained:
Lou beat Irish
Joe beat Carl
Mickey beat Willie
(though Carl beat Goose
and Willie beat Bob).

When playmates went west
they tagged along.
Coogan's Bluff saw its last miracle,
lights go down on the city.

They Were Family

They were family
or so we were told.
Good times.
Even Omar the Outmaker
got some stars
for the coolest hats of my childhood.

Crazy to think about
in retrospect,
but for the first 30 years
of my life,
Pittsburgh spent
more time in October
than the Yankees.

It is a bit embarrassing.
I think we were a bit bored
with the team in the playoffs.
Young Wakefield.
Young Bonds.
I always had a soft spot
for Zane Smith.
Ironically,
the Braves were underdogs.

Older now, when I bat
in the D-league softball palaces
I still sometimes pretend
I'm Pops.

Five haiku about the Cincinnati Reds

Nicknames say it all:
Queen city, city of pigs.
The Marge Schott era.

The Big Red Machine
was the best team of all time.
Just ask Joe Morgan.

Boston fans forget
after Fisk hit his home run
the Reds won it all.

They faced the Black Sox,
they faced Mantle and Maris
Best two out of three?

Watch me get through this
without mentioning Pete Rose.
I what? Oh, phooey.

Once Bridegrooms

Once bridegrooms now middle-aged bums,
they dug their roots from the deep burrow
and headed west to find a new bride,
younger and blonde.

When we first met, I was in grade school.
They had broken my dad's heart
twenty years earlier.
I liked the Yankees and, so,
hated the Red Sox.

But these guys were different:
contempt not from the familiarity
of a six-month war of attrition.
Aliens from another world
where you could make a right on red.
Who were these guys?
Garvey, Cey, Lopes.
No Brett, Carew or Rice, surely.
And no Koufax or Drysdale, either.

Ford told us to drop dead
and Sam's son tried to make good on it.
California was the future
but Reggie had the mantle of the past
until Fernando heard the drums.

The old bridegrooms again middle-aged.
Settled in LA, they've even lured
Joe out to join them.
We see them in the summer now sometimes,
but it has been nearly 30 years
since they've come over
(or invited us over)
for the High Holy Days.
Maybe in the new place?

Dizzy and Ducky-Wucky

Boys playing a boy's game
and making child's play of it.
Obsession during depression
with a team of Daffy and The Lip
and Pepper and Ducky-Wucky.

In the other league, the Iron Horse
had eclipsed the Bambino
but Motown eclipsed the Big Apple.

Beyond the Hudson,
past LaGuardia's sway
Dizzy led the gang.
Swagger and the skill to
back it up,
and the charm to make you
like him
while he did it.

Dizzy's brother was on the team, too.
The press called him Daffy
but he preferred Paul.

When they met in an gashouse series
Mickey and Hank and Charlie
proved no match
for Ripper and Flash and Spud.
Ducky-Wucky was showered
with trash
by the fans.

Before he won the finale
x-rays of Dizzy's head
showed nothing.

Speramus Meliora; Resurget Cineribus

They hoped for better things.
The Paris of the West deflating
like a balloon untied.
Astride the lakes the city sighs,
contemplating their predicament,
kings of a land now obsolete.

The city's past was kind
Full of Kaline, Greenberg and Kell
Democracy's Arsenal burning bright.
Light for a city in darker days,
Well did they remember Cochrane and Cobb,
mind over matter in the Year of the Bird.

Trammell's return an untrammeled disaster,
Forty-nine out with six games to go.
Panic in Detroit, noone asking for autographs.
Laughs nationwide, they couldn't look you in the eye.
No slack to avoid the record for losses, they
master the opposition to close five for six.

Magglio and Ivan led them back to the promised land,
losers turned winners in a city of loss.
The rebound was swift, and quite unexpected,
suspected by many to be without hope.
Toss in a corps of the young and talented
and once more no team might hold them.

Now the city must see which pride they will feed
and follow the lions or tigers lead.

Dead Ball

They were allowed to throw
spitballs back then.
They did lots of things to the ball
to make them harder to hit,
harder to see.
The pitchers liked the
dead ball.

Ray was a shortstop.
Good player, not a superstar.
Cleveland was fighting
for their first pennant,
playing in New York.

Carl was the pitcher.
A good pitcher, too.
Submarine delivery.
Threw a spitter,
though it's not clear
if that was the pitch.

Whatever it was,
Ray didn't see it.
Maybe it was Carl's delivery.
Maybe it was the late afternoon sun.
Carl heard the
crack
of the bat and fielded
the ball to throw
Ray out.

But it wasn't the
crack of the bat.

Cleveland donned
black arm bands
and won the World Series.
Joe took Ray's place
and went to the Hall of Fame.

They made a plaque
commemorating Ray's life
saying
"He lives in The Hearts
Of All Who Knew Him."

If any team would be cursed

If any team would be cursed
you might think
this would be the group.
That the unforgivable sin
they committed
would mark them still.

Not trading a star player,
or denying entry to a goat:
those whimsies were
business
as usual,
post facto ghost stories
told to frighten the kids
in the old style.

This was business unusual.
K become kayfabe.
Old Roman in Greek tragedy,
tightfisted enough to squeeze
the joy from a game
and shameless enough
to say it wasn't so.

Is there room in the Hall of Fame
for Shoeless Joe?
I say perhaps, in his turn.
After all the greats have been enshrined
and the near-greats.
After all the men who could never play
because of the color of their skin.
After all the women who could never play
because they never were given a chance.
After all the honest folk in this country
and in every country
who ever picked up a bat and ball
or watched someone pick up a bat and ball
are honored for their love for the game
there might be room for him left
in the corner of a basement of an annex.

If ever a team was cursed
you'd think it would be them.
But the trophy has returned to the South Side.
Across town
they are still worried about the goat.

Home of the Impossible Dream

They call it a cathedral,
and the faithful congregate
to worship at the site of
their wailing wall.

But is is not also
a site of battle?
Flanders fields
where Papi grew,
rent by civil wars,
dented by cruel fates?

And is it not haunted
by spirits of past glory?
Speakers and foxes,
the babe and young,
spaceman and oil can,
scene of an empire's
mortal injury.

Still, the faithful will
point to the miracles:
idiot Lazarus
and ketchup-stained hero,
Pudge reaching the pole,
Teddy's last circuit.
Home of the impossible dream
made possible.

Roll Call

Fans, for the past two weeks
you have been reading
baseball poetry.

Many before have written
of these grand men.
Ruth and Reggie,
Mantle and DiMaggio,
as many in the future
will write of Jeter and
(dare we hope?)
Cano.

Who wouldn't consider it
a privilege
to root for such a team?

We are a glass
half-full fanbase,
whose cup overfloweth.
Is it ungrateful to frown
over the unhappy times?

The wild pitch of Chesbro's,
the not-wild pitch of Terry's,
separated by a half-century,
and a half-century in the past
yet lingering even still?

To still have memories
dripping with venom
for Ed Whitson,
for Doyle Alexander,
for Carl Pavano,
for Kevin Brown?

To recall
even in his greatness,
Rivera bested by Cleveland,
bested by Arizona,
bested by Boston,
if not (yet?) bested by time?

Is it indulgent to feel for those
who lived in a land of plenty
in a time of famine?
Bobby Murcer and Al Orth,
Mel Stottemyre and Don Mattingly?

Perhaps.

We can be
belligerent,
obnoxious,
smug and unlikeable,
but we know in our hearts
we consider ourselves
the luckiest fans
on the face of the Earth.

The Natty Boh Flowed Like Water

Football town
with a tell-tale baseball heart
where Jane took Tarzan
and Hannibal had his first dinner party.
Down to the wire.

They gave the country
the Star Spangled Banner.
They gave the country
Babe Ruth and Lefty Grove.
The country gave them
the minor leagues.
Only this and nothing more
until brown wrecks looked for
a new start.
The Natty Boh flowed
like water.

Pappas for Robinson.
Mantle becomes mortal,
Yankees sink to the core.
Angry birds rise
with three-run home runs.

Foils for Seaver, Clemente and Stargell,
foiling Bench, Koufax, and Carlton.
But when Tracy Tumblad said good morning.
They needed 22 tries to wake up.

The team now lives near
the Babe's old digs.
Would he have smiled
to see Lou's record erased?
He would likely have smiled
at the close proximity
of the barbecue stand
and crabcakes.

#34

There once was a player named Puckett
who could hit the ball far as Nantucket.
But for Minnesota fans
his memory today
cannot be done justice in a simple limerick.

He didn't look like a baseball player,
his body with Santa-like layer,
but once on the field
he was a machine
cranking out hit after hit.

Each time the Twins made the Series
a loss was predicted by theories.
But they could not account
for so many things,
which is why they bother to play the games.

The stage or his teammates or cheering
Brought from Kirby what the NL was fearing.
Game 6, '91
with his catch and home run
brought his apotheosis in the eyes
of the baseball world.

There once was a player named Puckett.
The ball always flew when he struck it.
Today you'll see his name
in the Hall of Fame.
You Braves fans will just have to suck it.

White Elephants

In the beginning there was Connie Mack,
in straw hat, suit and tie.
In the days of William Howard Taft,
they were the league's first dynasty
winning Series back to back.

From first to worst one year the team would fall
but returned to the mountaintop
in the days of Herbert Hoover.
Grove and Foxx beat Ruth and Gehrig
Mack in the dugout for it all.

We all know even icons all must age.
Only love enough for one brother.
In the days of Eisenhower
the team decamped for Kansas City,
Mack moved to another stage.

Years of glory still would lie ahead
beneath the shadow of Mt. Davis.
In the days of Catfish Hunter
and Reggie Jackson,
Dave Stewart
and Walt Weiss,
and even Jason Giambi.
Through earthquake and mustache they led.

Better Angels

The Los Angeles Angels.
Of Anaheim.
Remarkable name.
Maybe not poetic,
(ironically enough)
but remarkable.

The coda gets the attention.
But the redundancy
and repetition of the name
is of note
for its redundancy.

What does
Los Angeles mean?
What would the team name be
in Spanish?

Then to finish off with
the misdirection!
If Magritte were in marketing
this would have been
his cherub.

Sosa for Bell, A-Rod for Soriano

Their last game before moving
to The Metroplex
didn't quite finish.
The cops got bored and left early.
The fans got into the game
in an untraditional way
and stormed the field
with one out to go.

Deep in the heart,
deep in the standings.
And whenever they rose
they always were green,
dream seasons cut short
as if by Pam Ewing's alarm.

Nolan wears their hat
in Cooperstown,
as Pudge likely will
some years hence.
But the great players
have not been great enough here,
more dullards
with part worth.

Two strikes put them out,
even their former owner
couldn't win without a cloud.
Fifty seasons, and no flag
save the lone star.

Meeting the Mets

if i were to meet the mets,
who should i be meeting?
for meting out my meets i bet
that it would beat a beating.

you might say i should see seaver
for a meeting on the mound
rather than some reliever
who was once tidewater bound.

perhaps i'd go to doctor k
for an office visit
mayhap i'd see lord charles that way
(that's not so crazy, is it?)

lee mazilli, on other hand,
might be a met more fitting.
before his career turned to sand
when he just stopped hitting.

kranepool, piazza, pedro m,
santana (and his blister)?
i think among all of them
i'd meet the met named "mister".

Baseball Poems 11: The Eighth Wonder, in Repose

A vast indoor field is found
in the suburbs of Houston,
once the eighth wonder of the world,
close by the rusting remains of rockets
that carried their civilization
to another planet.

When the grass died, they
painted the dirt, boundless and bare,
and developed new grass.
Better grass.
Plastic grass.

The game they played was run-starved,
their opponents wrinkled their lips.
Mike Scott's split-finger fastball
mocked them.
JR Richard's pitching
with sneers of cold command.
Batters looked upon the works of
Nolan Ryan, king of kings,
and despaired.

Legendary wars of attrition,
antique strategies resurrected
in the building of the future.

Progress now means
fresh air on demand and real grass.
Space abandoned for earth,
eighth wonder traded for a juice box.

It stands a colossal wreck
bereft of baseball,
football,
country music,
college basketball,
or rodeo.

Now obsolete as the
Lighthouse of Alexandria
and the Saturn V.

Baseball Poems 10: A Pleasant Team for a Pleasant City

A pleasant team for a pleasant city.
What's not to like, really?
What's the worst one can say about them?
They have a history of ugly uniforms.

That much is true.
Goofy 70s fonts, yellow on brown.
They wear camo on Sundays.
Still, the "Swinging Friar" is kind of cool.

They seem to end up as speed bumps
in the way of better teams,
if not much of an obstacle:
Footnotes in the coronations of 1984 and 1998,
answers to a trivia question about the Rockies.

But not every fan base is tortured, not every team star-crossed.
There are only so many Nolan Ryans and Hank Aarons.
It is enough, sometimes, to appreciate
the Gwynns and Hoffmans,
the sun and the sea.

Baseball Poems 9: The Pine Tar Game

I still get angry
when I think about
the Pine Tar Game.

I have never looked at
the sport the same.
It is the oldest,
stupidest,
most meaningless thing
I can think of
that still gets me this mad.

Royals-Yankees, late July.
By then they'd had
seven years of history.
Playoff games, walkoff homeruns
and crying shortstops.
But by now these ancient foes
had sunk to fourth and third.

Gossage was in.
This noble bird
was toiling for save number 12
with only George Brett standing in the way.

Instead of save number 12
Brett hit home run 20 that day.

Or so it seemed.

The bat Brett used ran afoul
of the rules.
He was called out
the score then reverted.

The Royals and Brett
were disconcerted
and burst from the dugout
with murderous rage.

But the umpire pointed
to verse on the page.
It really should have ended there.

But no.

The Royals appealed,
the appeal was upheld.
The rule wasn't one
that was meant to be kept.
I guess it was there
for no apparent reason?

The home run would count.
Later in the season,
they all reconvened to finish off the ninth.
The Yanks took the field with a grumble.

Manager Martin
(never one to be humble)
tried everything he could contrive.
Put a pitcher in the outfield,
first baseman at second
and protested the rest of the inning.

It went into the books with the Royals winning.

And now here we are, nearly thirty years on.
The principles laugh,
both the pitcher and hitter.

But I'm still unaccountably bitter.

Baseball Poems 8: Stormin' Gorman

I remember Gorman Thomas
as if it were yesterday,
and the way he put the ball into the seats.
Reggie's dynasty was dying
and Gorman Thomas seemed to say
"I'll pick up the slack with Herculean feats."

There were others who were better:
Robin Yount and Cecil Cooper,
Rollie Fingers seemed unhittable back then.
Other teams had banjo hitters
stealing second after bloopers.
Gorman Thomas was a giant among men.

They call it "the good land"
(unless Alice was lying),
but what's good now is Prince and sausage races.
In the days of Gorman Thomas
there was a lot more worth buying
as they put Bernie Brewer through his paces.

Bruce Sutter struck out Gorman
to kick off the smallball folly
and put Harvey's Wallbangers in the past.
The Hall of Fame came calling
for Robin, Paul, and Rollie
as one of Gorman's homers was his last.

But if you go a-calling
and see him in his Corner
please thank him for all he did back then.
In the days of David Kingman,
Michael Schmidt and Bob Horner
Gorman Thomas was a giant among men.

Baseball Poems 7: Round Trip

I.
Though the standings called them Homestead
this was their real home,
hundreds of miles from the Steel City.

Griffith let them take the field
and fill the stands:
Cool Papa, Buck Leonard,
Josh Gibson.

Griffith wouldn't take them on his team, of course.
Their money was green, though,
and he was happy enough for that.
His own team couldn't fill the stands
and could have used Josh Gibson.

Marian Anderson played the Lincoln Memorial
and not soon enough
Jackie Robinson played Ebbets Field.
Dawn in Brooklyn in the Gray twilight.

II.
They loved Jackie here first.
A nation proudly gave their new team
an Olympic stadium,
named them for the World's Fair.

In 10 years they were ready:
Andre and Gary, Steve and Woodie.
They had a taste of October rains,
but suffered the hangover of a blue Monday.

Another summer found the world was fair
and it did not take much extrapolation
to imagine Moises and Pedro
recovering the grail.
But then came the end of the world.

The poison spread, health failed.
Even trips to try and recover in the tropics
didn't fool anyone.
Moises and Pedro found the grail for others,
as Gary and Tim had before.
Finally the team went south and didn't return.
Youppi wept.

III.
What might Jackie think today
if he had seen Barack throw out
the first pitch of the year?

Perhaps I'm being sentimental
(or cynical?)
to think he would have wondered
why the team decided to take the name
of Griffith's squad
rather than Josh's.

Baseball Poems 6: That Year

Before that year, they were still the team of
Gorman Thomas and Mark Langston,
Ruppert Jones and Alvin Davis.
Munchkins in the Emerald City.

That year we learned new names:
Randy, Tino, and Edgar,
a rookie named Alex,
and, of course, Junior.

Before that year, in 18 years of history,
they still had no real history.
As idle as a painted ship
upon a painted ocean.

After that year, they were known
from California to New York
(especially California and New York)
from Gene Autry to Donnie Baseball.

The Double began a couplet
that still remains unrhymed.
And even with wins everywhere,
they could not win it all.

From Kingdome to King Felix
and the return of the Prodigal Kid.
Perhaps we will look back in time
and see this year may also be that year.

(I would be remiss
not to include Ichiro
in his own haiku)

Baseball Poems 5: Blue Jay Way

On the shores of Lake Ontario
Beneath the tower's gaze
A stately pleasure dome was built
Where the local ball club plays

Beginning with futility
Near misses an advance
They couldn't hope to win it all
With men named Garth and Rance

But as Bush gave way to Clinton,
Bash Brothers in decline
Beyond the ancient borders
Lurked the Toronto nine

A finely balanced lineup
The pennant soon unfurled
It wasn't long before they won
The Series for the World

Another year, another win
Before a long repose
Now alone they stood on guard
With the flight of the Expos

Along the sacred River Rouge
The fans still hold fast
Their memories of Alomar
And Carter's mammoth blast
A fine and worthy past.

Baseball Poems 4: Fish Tale

We've pretty much oozed
bad baseball karma
since we were founded.

Think about it.

We've won two World Series
but never finished in first place.
And each time we had fire sales afterward
rather than build lasting success.

Our owner tried to kill our team
but worked out a deal
to buy a better team that was, well,
fishy.

We ended up with the guy
who killed the Expos.

We were there when the Cubs were five outs away
from the Series
and made Bartman famous.
We were there when the Indians were two outs away
from the championship
and broke their hearts, too.

And of course we were the poster boys
for shaking down our city
to get a new stadium built,
threatening to head to San Antonio.
It's a wonder we still have fans.

Although I guess we don't, really.

Baseball Poems 3: Too High for Baseball

Too high for baseball
is what they said about Denver
(as for Dock Ellis, that's a different poem).

Mike Hampton would have agreed
as would have Pedro Astacio
(though notably not Jeff Cirillo).

The atmosphere is thin,
the gravity is lower
(and they only serve Coors at the park).

Some call it a travesty
as they watch games on turf
with 13-man bullpens
beneath retractable roofs.

Personally, I think people should play baseball
wherever there are people who want to play baseball
(though we're all still waiting for Holliday to touch the plate).

Baseball Poems 2: The Details in the Devil Rays

The park was called the Thunderdome
though 'twas renamed for an an orange juice brand
when Devil Rays called it their home
upon their start in '98.

The team that year was far from great
and Rothschild's bearing could make no dent.
So few men would cross the plate
even with Boggs and McGriff.

It proved to be a familiar riff
as years dragged on and feelings waned.
Another draft, another stiff
when Sweet Lou came onstage.

But even all of Sweet Lou's rage
could not catch Boston or New York.
Perhaps the Devil was the cage?
Was their name a gift from hell?

For what team could possibly do well
when giving the devil sympathy?
(New Jersey in the NHL
but that's conveniently ignored.)

So after their owner implored
they emerged as simply the Rays.
The baseball world was all but floored
when they brought the pennant home.

Baseball Poems 1: Arizona Diamondbacks

At the very start
I was there, though it seems odd to think about that way.
Spring training, opening day at the new park.
First game for the latest team.
I bought a pin for my wife to prove it
though I don't know where it is now.

I hated the city of Phoenix, sprawling on further than you'd think possible.
But I love baseball more than I hate Phoenix.

I rooted for the Diamondbacks the way
Stephen Stills would advocate.
We saw Karim hit the roof,
watched the Unit induce a triple play
(and strikeout a great many),
and stayed to watch the roof open.

We had moved on when this toddler team took to
the Fall Classic
and faced the team of the century
at the dawn of the new millennium.
After that terrible September gave way
to a numb November
Gonzo did what Stretch could not.
Exit Sandman.