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.

A Different Creative Endeavor

April is National Poetry Writing Month (or NaPoWriMo), where an online movement has sprung up to encourage people to write a poem a day over the course of the month. Now, while I'm no poet (and I know it), I do have this blog all set up for ill-advised artistic output. And what would my participation in NaPoWriMo be if not that?

So, I'm going to try and write a poem a day here, hopefully staying away from total doggerel. And nothing too involved. Since there are 30 days in the month, and 30 baseball teams in the major leagues, I think there's an obvious match to be made. We'll see how it goes...