My baseball interest is starting to percolate just a bit. I don’t believe the season is far enough along yet to declare any firm trends except maybe that Baltimore, Houston, and Kansas City are just very bad. And it looks to me that the Devil Rays are good enough to keep the Evil Empire huffing and puffing all year.

      

Other observations reveal that Moneyball is alive and kicking in Oakland and that Dallas Braden is the next great American bad ***. The Red Sox won’t cut their dead weight in Ortiz and Lowell (like the Yankees did with Damon and Matsui (granted they were free agents, but the surgery was necessary) and that’s why they’ll be looking up in the standings all year. And once again, the St. Louis Cardinals are quietly kicking everyone’s ***** and no one is talking about it.

      

One thing I am noticing about myself is that I have far less energy to adequately cover and follow my select group of teams this season. I try to keep it to five, but I’m only managing three if I’m lucky. Despite being DOWNRIGHT HORRIBLE, I’m still catching Dodgers games if only to weep at watching my favorite pitcher Charlie Haeger crumble his way back into the minors. The Dodgers will get better by mid season once the McCourt nonsense is clarified. They need arms in a bad way.

      

The Mets have captured most of my attention. I think it’s largely because how Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, and that other guy call the game. They make it entertaining and the Mets have played better than anyone thought. Ike Davis is one of my new favorite players and Jose Reyes has been balling. The pitching has held up well and they have a legitimate shot at the Phillies. I still would like to see Minaya and Manuel ousted, but that will only happen if the team orchestrates another classic late season Mets implosion. The Mets are ALMOST even with the Dodgers for my affection.

      

Those are the two I’ve been watching the most with the White Sox a distant third. Chicago is a bad team. They need a firm DH and for their infield to start hitting. Bobby Jenks has worn out his welcome and the bullpen is atrocious. I’m tired of watching the White Sox make the Blue Jays look good. One giant lie … all of it!

      

I’ve been negligent with a poem. So here’s one out of the blue:

 

The Baseball Card Dealer

By: Robert L. Harrison

c. 1986 from “Spitball”

 

What price Goodens?
Mattingly make my day,
all the cards are mint I say.
Touch greatness,
feel heartbeats pressed
onto cardboard,
smell gum dust
and join the lines
waiting for a hobby high.
Give up your dollars
George Washington
never had a RBI.

It’s Derby Day … and I had nothing to say. I’ve nothing literary to add because I’ve been engrossed in a new job and my own creative writing pursuits. Baseball has been away from my mind lately. The Dodgers in the cellar probably has much to do with my casual lack of interest. But it’s early. The Mets and Twinkies are doing well. And I don’t catch my second wind until the All Star Break anyway.

      

But today is the Kentucky Derby and before the horn sounds I’m rolling the bones with ‘Devil May Care’. I am a horse racing enthusiast who has yet to wager on the dexterity of an equine. I’m growing in my knowledge of the history and inner, contemporary machinations of the sport. And as absorbed as I am with the julep sipping splendor and ambience of the Kentucky Derby, I was even more geeked up that MLB.com writer Tom Singer wrote a bit about it. A very enlightening article.

      

I had heard that Dodger skipper Joe Torre had a stake on a horse in the race. Homeboykris. That’s a moronic name for a horse, but I still like you Joe. Even if the Bums are sucking the gas pipe. Even if Matt Kemp believes his own press as a pseudo celebrity. Even if the pitching staff is in what I correctly predicted would be shambles. And Manny is being Manny.

      

It’s not for these reasons that I’m not choosing Homeboykris to win. I’m just enough of a horse racing noob to know that you don’t bet on a steed because the name is cute. Or maybe you do. I’m just enough of a noob to claim a stroke of diviniation on a hunch. Devil May Care is going to take Homeboykris along with the roses. And hopefully next post, Joe will have the Bums out of last place for a photo finish in September.

 

You know …

Is it too much to ask for America in general to spell the names of the major cities correctly?

 It’s a bit of an old story and apparently (according to the article) mispellings of cities on team uniforms is suddenly in vogue; but this is getting absurd. I only bring this to the limelight because this IS a literary blog and even in the subtleties of the Old Ball Game, spelling is still pretty important. This would not otherwise happen unless perhaps you allow a Red Sox fan stitch together a New Yuck Yankees road jersey.

“Just sayin”.   

Next time … a poem … OF MY VERY OWN! 

This is 2010. April is also National Poetry Month. What a terrific blend of the Smiler’s Favorite Things, baseball and poetry.

 

This is also the year when the planet Jupiter was supposed to be turned by mercurial extraterrestrials into a bright and shiny life supporting star. This was to be the year when we were all going to have affordable hovercraft zipping around our George Jetson like stilt bubble cities. We are still two years out from the world ending before the Cubs can win another World Series. And in 2010, despite the best efforts of steroids, gambling, and the ADHD properties of faster and more violent sports taking center stage; Major League Baseball is still around … and thriving. I would even go so far to say that with the worst of scandals behind us, Major League Baseball is poised to enter a cleaner, more respectable, golden age. For what the modern game lacks in nostalgic luster, it makes up for in marketing and dedicated athletes.

 

I’ve chosen Gary Hall’s poem (featured below) as the defining literary tribute that captures zeitgeist of Baseball current, most extraordinary moment as the game stands on the precipice of claiming a younger generation of fans and reclaiming the jaded generations of yesteryear. It’s 2010. Let’s play ball!

 

Baseball Is

By Gary Hall

 

Baseball is grass, chalk, and dirt displayed the same yet differently

In every park that has ever heard the words play ball.

Baseball is a passion that bonds and divides all those who know it.

Baseball is a pair of hands stained with newsprint,

A set of eyes squinting to read a boxscore,

A brow creased in an attempt to recreate a three-hour game

From an inch square block of type.

Baseball is the hat I wear to mow the lawn.

Baseball is a simple game of catch

and the never-ending search for the perfect knuckleball.

Baseball is Willie vs Mickey, Gibson vs Koufax,

and Buddy Biancalana vs the odds.

Baseball links Kansan and Missourian, American and Japanese,

But most of all father and son.

Baseball is the scent of spring,

The unmistakable sound of a double down the line,

And the face of a 10-year-old emerging from a pile of bodies

With a worthless yet priceless foul ball.

Baseball is a language of very simple words that tell

unbelievably magic tales.

Baseball is three brothers in the same uniform on the same team

for one brief summer

Captured forever in a black and white photo on a table by the couch.

Baseball is a glove on a shelf, oiled and tightly wrapped,

Slumbering through the stark winter months.

Baseball is a breast pocket bulging with a transistor radio.

Baseball is the reason there are transistor radios.

Baseball is a voice in a box describing men you’ve never met,

In a place you’ve never been,

Doing things you’ll never have the chance to do.

Baseball is a dream that you never really give up on.

Baseball is precious.

Baseball is timeless.

Baseball is forever.

 

“Baseball Is” by Greg Hall ©

Originally Published by ESPN Radio

Source Link: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/poetry/po_is.shtml

 

I went book shopping armed with around 50 clams worth of birthday gift card credit and I emerged with three new gems for my Baseball library.

 

 

      

I’ve wanted to get a hold of Peter Morris’s: But Didn’t We Have Fun for a very long time. This one takes a look at the Old Ball Game in the 19^th century. I am under the impression that baseball in those days was more than a game. The players took the fraternity of the club very seriously, or at least that’s the impression that I get. I am eager to see how my theory holds against the scholarship of Morris. It goes without saying that this is probably a ‘must read’ for the budding Baseball Historian.

 

 

      

I’ve always found Minor League Baseball culture very curious. Matt McCarthy provides a candid glimpse into the daily routine of what many players endure in the minors in his book Odd Man Out. (I started this book first). I’ve heard the cliché that the Minors is about living on a bus and on fast food around a bunch of guys who are more your competitor than they are your pal. McCarthy’s writing and experience breathes new life into that truism through an enjoyable read.

 

 

      

Lastly, I picked up Fireman: The Evolution of the Closer in Baseball because the closer is my favorite position in the game. I grew up admiring the late Dan Quisenberry, Mitch Williams, and the Eck. Upon returning to the game in the last few years I am wholly impressed by K-Rod. This book gives a synopsis of them all.

      

Celebrity blogger and author Zack Hample collects baseballs. I understand he has close to a zillion of them. I collect hats.

 

I think one of the reasons I had a tough time with team allegiances is because I like so many of the team logos and hats. Of course, nothing looks better than Dodger Blue. But I’ll even go so far as to say that the Dodgers not only have the best uniform in the Bigs, they have the best assortment of team logos in the Minors too. I think the Devil Rays come close …

 

By now, I hope you realize this is going to be a superficial, smack talk entry … void of any poetry or literary value. But on sheer historical chic, how can anyone (except maybe a conceited Yankee or Red Sox fan), argue that their team uniforms are better than Dodger Blue?

 

Before you folks lambast me with evil emails, let me just say I’m kidding.

 

 

 

 

I’m a uniform and logo traditionalist. That comes from being a wannabe baseball historian. I think the older clubs … the Yankees (who stole their jersey script font from the Dodgers … I refuse to believe it’s the other way around), the Red Sox, the Reds, the Pirates and Tigers have the most simplistic charges and colors that have survived revisions (the White Sox too after years of insufferable ugliness have stuck with a good thing). Even the A’s have their enduring elephant logo even if the colors have changed. The Mets as a Dodger/Giant combo are cool by default. The oldies are still the goodies because they don’t require change. The Padres should take notes …

 

This extends to the minors. I know little about the details of the clubs but the logos for the Dodgers, Devil Rays, and Red Sox are among the best. The Durham Bulls … well, movie. ‘Nuff said. But the Rays also have the Charlotte Stone Crabs (cool), Bowling Green Hot Rods (cool), and Montgomery Biscuits (storied … but not so cool) and probably should’ve stuck with the Devil in them before they became the bland drab of Kansas City in the Sunshine State.

 

The Red Sox have the Portland Sea Dogs which (back in the day) was such a cool logo that a brief renaissance of hats in the late part of last century erupted with minor league merchandise and I remember distinctly the Sea Dogs led that charge.

 

 

 

But the Dodgers are the best. So sit down. Albuquerque Isotopes? It takes guts and a bit of chutzpah to name a team that in an area that even Bugs Bunny couldn’t navigate (let alone space aliens). But I dig the logo even if it does remind me of Astros hideousness. The Chattanooga Lookouts with their GEICO commercial creepy eyeball appeal is as timeless as Durham. And the Inland Empire 66ers makes a cool logo out of a stupid name. Ditto that for the Great Lakes Loons.

 

Minor league baseball is amazing, but I find it hard to follow. So I’m just about collecting the hats myself and even that can be challenging. So did I leave anyone out? Opinions?

 

I’ve been trying to craft this entry for the last two days. Over that time I revised the panoply of six teams that I follow and provide the justifications for the decision here. I was tired of my own fair weather loyalties that emerged over the course of my last two years returning to baseball. Aside from being a true Dodger fan, my other team allegiances shifted with the wind.

      

I also came to acknowledge a ‘man crush’. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it’s a word used to by a male to express admiration and affection for another of his own gender without the stigma of being homosexual. Lots of guys have a ‘Baseball Hero’. To have one is as old as the sport itself. These days most people like Albert Pujols, Derek Jeter, or perhaps, A Rod.

      

Me? I like Joe Mauer. And yes, I wish he were a Marlin or White Sox.

      

Why?

 

Well, I’ve always liked the pitching game and the catcher is a big part of that. In my mind, and others seem to agree, the catcher is the cornerstone of the team. They are not exactly offensive juggernauts and those that are give up something defensively. My favorite catcher has been Jason Varitek of Boston. But with his career in the fade, Mauer has achieved ascendency as an elite player. He hits for power. He’s a humble guy committed to playing in his small market venue of Minnesota. He calls a good game. He’s young and already survived physical adversity. He’s about to become very rich, and he’s the main reason the Minnesota Twins have become one of my stable of teams.

      

I’m not at ‘Man-Crush’ level with Mauer, but he is my favorite ball player among the likes of Johnny Gomes, Nick Swisher, Tim Wakefield, etc. All of them are scrapper personalities that have overcome adversity to excel in the game. But of the four, Mauer has the best chance to make a Cooperstown appearance when his career is done.

 

I know Baseball is around the corner, but I’m just not “into” it yet. Or maybe I’m just not “feeling” it yet. All the same, I know that it’s a matter of time before the bug bites.

 

Here is a poem that might hopefully get me into the swing of things. It’s by May Swenson and on the website where I mine these verses, the visual appeal of the poem is structured that the words make it look like a bat. Some poets do this at times to bring the art of what they’re trying to say into word picture presentation on a page desirous in part to convey meaning dually through message and images like inkblots. I was able to insert the poem as Swenson structured it visually, but the poem itself is a brilliant piece even without visual enhancements.

 

 

The Analysis of Baseball

by May Swenson (c. 1971)

 

It’s about
the ball,
the bat,
and the mitt.
Ball hits
bat, or it
hits mitt.
Bat doesn’t
hit ball, bat
meets it.
Ball bounces
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
ground (dud)
or it
fits mitt.

Bat waits
for ball
to mate.
Ball hates
to take bat’s
bait. Ball
flirts, bat’s
late, don’t
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
(thwack) back
to mitt.

Ball fits
mitt, but
not all
the time.
Sometimes
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
meets it,
and sails
to a place
where mitt
has to quit
in disgrace.
That’s about
the bases
loaded,
about 40,000
fans exploded.

It’s about
the ball,
the bat,
the mitt,
the bases
and the fans.
It’s done
on a diamond,
and for fun.
It’s about
home, and it’s
about run.

 

Baseball has been on the back burner lately. I have been engaged in my alter ego side … Will the Dark Fantasy/I’m a more sadistic and sinister than Tolkien novel writer. I have to say I’ve been productive at least in a first draft manuscript sense of things, but I digress.

 

I’ve been obsessed with two things that dominate most of the time. The first is the Dragon Age: Origins Video Game (Heaven sent manna for my Fantasy fix). Secondly, and less obsessively, I’ve been transfixed by Johnny Damon.

 

I don’t know why. I’m not a big Damon guy. He’s a sell out. A Hardball mercenary. Maybe that’s the reason. He takes his bat and 20 plus dingers and hires them out to the highest bidder. Playoffs be damned. He’s just lucky enough to have chosen correctly for rings with the Sox and the Evil Empire. Go Johnny Go.

 

But not this year.

 

This year he’s going to land with a loser as he hopes Scott Boras can get him a final decently compensated career twilight gig. Options abound. The Reds, Tigers, Devil Rays, and Blue Jays all seem to be in the mix. I’m rather shocked that it’s taken so long. Having been abandoned by the Yankees (for which I don’t feel any sympathy for Damon. It’s a mercenary’s comeuppance in my opinion), it’s nearly February and he can’t find anyone who wants to pay more than 3 million for him. But I just have to know where he goes!

 

It’s just crazy. So my prediction? Johnny Damon will be … a Giant for the right price.

 

That’s it for now. No poems or prose to share this time. See you again soon.

 

 

Andre “The Hawk” Dawson soared rightfully and deservedly into the Baseball Hall of Fame. As he settles into his rightful perch there, much is being made about what logo will tattoo his bronzed headgear. This currently unresolved issue has, by inertia, resurrected a bit of homage for the Montreal Expos. Dawson played many years with that proud franchise, along with Pedro Martinez, Bill Lee, Tim Wallach, Gary Carter (who is currently the only representative of the Expos in the Hall), Larry Walker and more.

      

In his article Montreal Expos, forgotten by Many, are reuniting in Cooperstown; Tyler Kepner crafts a somber lamentation for a franchise that I feel was too easily jettisoned by the owners of the Washington Nationals (the team the Expos became when they re-located in 2005), and too wrongly dismissed as an unviable option by Major League Baseball.

 

Yes, they had a horrible stadium, worse uniforms, and many uncompetitive years; but the Expos were the first team in Canada and had a thriving fan base in a part of that nation that originally treated baseball with the same hesitancy as America gives soccer. For my part, I always liked the Expos (much more than the Blue Jays) and appreciated the quirky kitsch of the team’s independence and rugged determination to excel despite being the quintessential small market club.

      

Repos dans la paix, Expos de Montreal … we shall never forget. And I hope if baseball decides to expand to Canada again that Montreal is considered and that the Expos name (much like the Cleveland Browns were) is restored.