So the news comes that Mark McGwire
On the subject of juice was a liar.
Plus, it’s a good bet
That water is wet
And it hurts to grab something on fire

“I’m not here to talk ’bout the past,”
Mark blurted to Congress so fast,
Whatever the pride
He had that day died
To give a defense so half-assed.

To get a job working for Tony,
Mark had to confess his baloney.
He was juiced to the ears
The homer-derby years,
A fame-drunk, preposterous phony.

To get in the Cooperstown Hall,
McGwire will wait for his call
Til Hell freezes over,
The sea swallows Dover,
And Sammy parleys like Bill Engvall.

UPDATE: Here’s another from Friend of Bardball Doug White:

He once chased Aaron and Ruth
With the callow aggression of youth,
But from his head to his toes,
Just like Petey F. Rose,
McGwire won’t face up to the truth.

The recession in Detroit has claimed another victim. The Tigers’ Curtis Granderson, who by all accounts is as good a man as he is a centerfielder, has been peddled to make room on the payroll. No more will Tiger fans see that skinny body, with the knee socks pulled up high, stretching singles into doubles and roaming the expanse of the outfield. I was hoping that this man, picked 80th in the draft a few years ago, would spend his entire career in a Detroit uniform. It was not to be.

And what’s worse, as cliche as it may sound, is that he’s been traded to the Yankees. The crucible of New York and Yankee Stadium will work hard to beat his personality to fit the Yankee standards and extinguish the fire in his beautiful eyes. After a few key strikeouts, the NY fans will turn on him like a revolving door and boo him straight outta town. I just pray that his character is strong enough to last his tenure there. Because they don’t care if you’re a team leader there, or how much good work you really do through your charities. On top of that, you have to win, all the time. How can anyone stand up to that? Why should they need to?

In honor of Curtis G., here’s a little bit of doggerel I wrote for Bardball in 2008:

Grandy!
No one with a bat is more handy,
With a stance coiled like ribbon candy.

Grandy!
His gait is smooth like aged brandy,
Stretching singles into doubles his modus operandi.

Grandy!
In any outfield, verdant or sandy,
He’ll grab more flies than the Rio Grande.
With five skills at his command, he
Picks up his team like a Starbucks grande.
He could melt the heart of Tristram Shandy.
Man o man, that kid is dandy.
Can’t you tell? I love Grandy!

Found this terrific animation this morning on Uni-Watch, a strangely compelling site covering the aesthetics of sports uniforms and logos. Check it out.

I wrote and posted this one yesterday on Bardball, but kinda forgot to post it here. What’s this place for, if not to pimp and flog?

And for all the Yankee haters out there, please check out this interesting post from “Pitchers and Poets,” entitled “Frickin’ A-Rod: How I Learned to Stop Wallowing and Grudgingly Support the Yankees.” I have to say, my animosity has been tempered too. Winning a World Series once a decade is a pretty good average, I think.

Just Hold On Til Mo

When your son asks you advice on mascara,
When your head’s a-flame and your mouth’s a Sahara,
When that small, still voice inside prattles like Berra–
I’ve got two words:
Mariano Rivera.

When you’re uprooted and force-marched to some terra
Incognita, a dark, doomed hell where a perky Sarah
Palin is president and not just a chimera–
I’ve got two words:
Mariano Rivera.

When you yearn for escape and consider hara-
Kiri–Breathe deep, relax, don a fresh guayabera,
And watch the greatest hero since Before the Common Era–
He’ll bless you and keep you:
Mariano Rivera.

Up today on Bardball:

The Ballad of Susan Finkelstein

The girl had “Phillie Fever,
A massive fall attack.
The only cure required her
To lay down on her back.

To nab a pair of tickets,
What must a clever girl do?
A “Dirty Utley”? “Around the Lidge”?
A “Hamels Camel” or two?

But the cops horned in, and now her pic’s
Been spread across the nation.
Next time, p’raps, she first should try
Some Manuel stimulation.

Good joke sent by an old friend in an email yesterday:

Little David is in the 1st grade. Yesterday morning when the teacher asked the children what their fathers did for a living. All the typical answers came up; fireman, policeman, salesman, etc.

The teacher noticed that little David was being uncharacteristically quiet and so she asked him about his father.

‘My father’s an exotic dancer in a gay bar and takes off all his clothes in front of other men. Sometimes, if the offer’s really good, he’ll go out to the alley with some guy and do it with him for money.’

The teacher, obviously shaken by this statement, hurriedly set the other children to work on some coloring, and took little David aside to ask him,’Is that really true about your father?’

‘No,’ said David,’He plays for the Cubs, but I was too embarrassed to say that in front of the other kids.’

It’s funny cuz it’s true.

Received this evening:

Hi James,

Earlier today, an email promoting Chicago Cubs postseason tickets was sent to you. This, unfortunately, was a mistake. We regret the error and apologize for any inconvenience or confusion this may have caused.

Sincerely,

The StubHub Team

No matter how many times they’re whacked,

Those pesky Twins keep coming back.

Like a dose of clap on your wedding day,

Those lousy Twins won’t stay away.

Like a yappy dog or a Ringling clown,

Those stinking Twins won’t lay down.

In another division, I’d admire their pluck,

But as a Tiger and Sox fan, it looks like I’m stuck

Watching them ruthlessly turning their tricks

Like a mad masked killer in a teen slasher flick.

Like a zombie army or Ted Williams’ head,

Those #$%@!! Twins just won’t stay dead.

Posted yesterday on Bardball.com. Shit.

Posted this morning on Bardball:

Milton Bradley got into Trouble
Caught in the Wrigley Field bubble.
A Payday enormous
For such poor performance.
Now his Career’s nothing but rubble.
.
Sorry, Milt, that Chicago’s blunt fans
Made it seem less than a Candyland.
That’s the Risk that you take
Living Life by the lake.
It’s like permanent Ants in the Pants.
.
Is the Aggravation because you are black?
Balderdash, Milty, You Don’t Know Jack.
We all had a Clue
This is what you would do.
Last Word: Your Cranium’s cracked.

.

I just read in the Free Press that tonight, Ernie Harwell will be saluted during the game between the Tigers and the Royals. Harwell, one of the premier baseball broadcasters and a staple in the lives of anyone who lived in Michigan in the past 50 years, was diagnosed with inoperable bile duct cancer last month. (For some readers’ reactions to the news, check out this article in the Freep. Have a tissue ready.)

I wish I were able to tune in the game tonight in Chicago to see the message. I’m sure Ernie will be his gracious self and thank everyone for their well wishes and for making his life in Detroit so full. Whereas, in reality, he was the one who enriched our lives, with his skill, his great storytelling ability, his humor, and his seemingly endless goodwill for everyone. It’s hard to write about him without seeming maudlin, but if the world still values humility, graciousness and respect for your fellow man (all of which certainly have taken a beating in the news for the past few years), then every day should be a salute to his example. He lived a long, full life, and he made everyone’s lives better who came in contact with him.

A couple seasons ago, I sent a letter to Ernie to tell him about our new baseball poetry site, Bardball.com. I don’t know why, but I imagined he would acknowledge it in some way, because until felled with illness, he always had time for everyone. I was floored when he sent the postcard below AND mentioned us in his regular Free Press column. And dig that! “I appreciate your support. Enjoyed your verse.” I was over the moon when that arrived. And how cool is it that he used a Mickey Mantle stamp on it?

And now, news of his declining health makes me feel negligent, as if I haven’t searched out his books, or read his column as religiously as he deserves. I probably thought he would go on forever. That’s the kid in me, the one listening to Ernie and Paul Carey on the clock radio real quietly on a school night as the Tigers muddled their way through another game.

His books are great, but a little too anecdotal, which makes them a little choppy. Ernie’s not Roger Kahn, after all, but none of us are. He was best enjoyed in the moment, when the game was unfolding and he was talking about Sparky or Gibby or John Wockenfuss, or whether the pitcher had his best stuff that night, or the fan from Amherstberg who caught the foul ball. I’ve tried working on a poem for Ernie for Bardball for a couple years now, but have never been able to get it quite right. Maybe soon I’ll finish it, but it won’t be nearly adequate to describe the man. To get a full measure of him, for those of you out-of-towners, imagine his spicy baritone on Opening Day, when he would read from the Song of Solomon:

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

All the sweetness of creation. And with that, another season began, and the world was new again.

How many broadcasters can give you that?

UPDATE: You can watch Ernie’s speech by going to Bless You Boys, and you can see the video highlight reel shown at the stadium last night at the Tigers website here.

Back at the Printers Row Lit Fest in June, after we appeared on a panel to discuss baseball and Cubbie Blues, I cornered Sara Paretsky and asked her to read a poem for Bardball.com. She was nice enough to agree to it, and looked over the 8 or so poems I just happened to have printed up. Just my luck, she chose my poem “Wings of the Bird”. We found a little vacant lecture room in the Harold Washington Library and taped this below. Hope you like (apologies in advance for the clumsy editing).

If you’re a Sara Paretsky fan (and of course, you should be), her new book starring V.I. Warshawski is coming out on September 22. You can find more info on the book, Hardball, at her webpage here.

We’ve now posted a second podcast for Bardball.com, the only daily baseball poetry website. In this episode, a plethora of readers will regale you with poems about Dontrelle Willis, father-and-son bonding, and a parody of Robert Frost about sneaking down to the expensive stadium seats during later innings.

Yeah, we’s well read, we got a little Frost parody action goin’ on! Can I get an Amen and a Holy Cow?!

Please catch the latest Bardball Bardcast at libsyn by clicking here.

You can also subscribe to us at iTunes. Even if you don’t regularly listen to podcasts, please consider subscribing, as that will raise our profile and attract some more fans to us. We’re building a great community here, one piece of doggerel at a time.

Posted today on Bardball:

The White Sox and the Cubbies
Determined to have a battle.
Then Ozzie said that Wrigley Field
Wasn’t fit for cattle.

“It makes me puke,” he told the press,
Though he meant no disrespect.
His mouth is like a leaky faucet,
So what could you expect?

The Chicago skippers aren’t like the twins
From Lewis Carroll’s book of yore.
Ozzie yips like a hyper spaniel
While Lou just shrugs and snores.

This year has been a stellar one over at Bardball, the baseball poetry website. Some of our submissions have been so well written, we may have to change our slogan from “Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel” to “Baseball Poetry I Wish I’d Wish I’d Written.”

And now, we’re gettin’ all high-tech and virtual on y’all, because now we’ve made our first podcast featuring poetry from the site. Unfortunately on this first “Bardcast”, I’m the one doing the narration, but there’s plenty of good writing and cool music to take your mind off my flat Midwestern A’s. This podcast is from poetry we published around the beginning of the season, but we’ll have a lot more as the summer rolls on.

Please check it out by going to libsyn. You can also find the Bardcast through iTunes. If you feel like doing us a favor, click to subscribe on the Bardcast to drive our numbers out of the single digits.

Good news from Motown: Dontrelle Willis is back. Off the DL and apparently having licked his anxiety disorder for now, he shut down the Rangers last night. At one point he retired 16 batters in a row. And from what highlights I saw, he looked like the Dontrelle of old: slow windup, lots of power building up in the butt, and then the quick release with good control. If he’s pitching well this year, it will be a good time at Comerica this season.

(It’s interesting that Willis’ anxiety issues put him on the disabled list when I read about the same problem hitting Zach Greinke a couple years back. After taking some time off and clearing his head, Greinke is now arguably the best pitcher in baseball. Good to see jocks admit that once in a while, it DOESN’T do any good to tough it out. If you haven’t read the story by Joe Posnanski in the May 4 Sports Illustrated, you should.)

Bardball has been kind of skint lately with current event verse, so I had to whip up a poem this morning, while I sat in the shade in the backyard, enjoying a freakishly warm summer day. It’s not my best, but it’s as fresh as the morning headlines.

Triumph of the Willis

It brightens baseball’s heart, Dontrelle,
To have you back and pitching well.

Your fastball cutting like a knife,
Endangering the catcher’s life,

Your off-speed floating up and down,
Your hat too big like Charlie Brown’s.

Your rookie year is long behind–
Was that the thing that messed your mind?

We all get old, last time I checked.
That doesn’t mean your life is wrecked.

You’ve got the stuff, now find the guile,
And you’ll be here a good long while.

This Thursday night, I’ll be on a panel at the Oak Park Public Library, along with other contributors to the anthology Cubbie Blues, to talk about 100 years of failure and frustration on the north side of Chicago.

Joining me will be Donald Evans, who edited the book; Don DeGrazia, author of American Skin; Rick Kaempfer, webmaster at Just One Bad Century; Robert Goldsborough, journalist and mystery novelist; and George Rawlinson, who runs Can’t Miss Press which published the book.

We’re there in connection with the library’s presentation of the traveling exhibit, Pride and Passion: The African-American Baseball Experience. “Pride and Passion” was put together by the Baseball Hall of Fame and the American Library Association, and Oak Park is the only place it will be shown in Illinois. I’ve heard very good things about this exhibit, so you could at least come out and enjoy that, if you don’t feel like listening to a bunch of middle-aged white guys talk about Cub bizniz.

But it’s always a good time at these Cubbie Blues events, so come join us at the library, 834 Lake Street,
7 p.m. in the Veteran’s Room on the 2nd Floor.

Posted yesterday on Bardball, in honor of the home runs called back in Wednesday’s games:

Now that cameras can detect and correct
Our errors and human frailty,
I call for a replay of

Fidrych talking to the ball,
Reggie hitting in October,
Bob Gibson staring,
Koufax stretching,
Veeck laughing,

DiMaggio’s war years,
And Hank Greenberg’s,

And 1994, which could have saved the Expos,
And spared us the Nationals,

And Cap Anson shutting his damned mouth
And Buck O’Neil playing for the Cubs,
Satchel Paige for the A’s,
And Cool Papa Bell for the Cardinals.

Found this on Blip TV.

Up today at BARDBALL.COM:

The Wings of the Bird

Every kid thinks that he
Could mow down the heart of the Yankees order
If given the chance,
And someday everybody gets that chance,

And it’s good luck to talk to the ball,
And cheers are love that never dies,
And the world would love you if you showed them who you really are,
And magic can happen at any time.

That kid never dies.
That kid was the Bird.

There has been too much death to start this baseball season. The superstitious among us (which probably means every baseball fan, at some point in his or her life) might say it’s a bad omen, that we should stop the season now before something else happens. But if baseball is like life, then death certainly is a part of it.

First Nick Adenhart is snatched away by a drunk driver after an exciting start to a promising rookie year. Then, Harry Kalas, the voice of the Phillies, passes out in the broadcast booth and dies after 44 years of broadcasting. And Mark Fidrych, one of the most fabled Tigers of all, dies after an accident at his home in Massachusetts.

Three men, at different stages of life. Accolades won, fame flying by, promise unfulfilled, love and loss. Time, the avenger.

The only one of the three I know anything about is Fidrych. In his rookie year, I was 15, and was slowly abandoning baseball as uncool compared with music and the arts. (It was easy to turn my back on the Tigers, since they were heading straight downhill from the years I really loved them, from 1968 to 1973 and the firing of Billy Martin. My friends weren’t too into the sport, nor was my family. I only learned years later that my father didn’t take me to many games was that he hated baseball. Wish I could say I’m a third-generation fan with an unbroken streak of Opening Day appearances, but this is not my legacy.)

But you didn’t have to be a baseball fan to enjoy Mark Fidrych. He had enough enjoyment bubbling out of him that there was plenty to spare. Talking to the ball, grooming the mound, he seemed like a loon–maybe not the kind of bird he would appreciate being compared to–but he certainly didn’t care. A nonroster invitee, he was living every fan’s fantasy–”Just give me the chance, and I’ll strike out the Yankees. Just give me the chance.” But he was no clown, and he wasn’t a fluke. He had a wonderful delivery, doing things with his curve and slider that players 10 years older couldn’t do. Watching him win was kind of like being in love for the first time. It was a beautiful, perfect thing, and wouldn’t last in this world.

That bicentennial year was pretty crappy in Detroit. All the teams were losing. The auto industry was chugging along making Cougars and Delta 88s, but the factories were old and the unions were bloated and something about it felt corrupt. Disco was on the rise. Nixon had resigned 18 months before, and the hippies were getting fat and/or psychotic, and my 15-year-old mind just kept saying, Something’s not right these days.

But Fidrych was a good thing. There was no whiff of cynicism or greed or entitlement about him. He was a pure soul, and stayed one even after knee and arm injuries took away his control. And in all the years since he retired, by all accounts, he never felt anger or self-pity or regret about how short his career was. He was happy pitching, was grateful for the chance, then was just as happy driving a gravel truck, marrying his love and fathering a child. That is the legacy of the Bird. And he’ll always be that. And while I rarely find that peace of mind, I’ll always be grateful to have seen it in a guy like him.

As I saw in the comments of Cardboard Gods, Rookie of the Year Forever.