Odes And Toads:
14 Pindaric Baseball Acrostics
Anarchistic,
mustachioed, white-shod, swingin’
Team of my boyhood,
Hella representin’
our
Lighthearted
Oaktown of summertime sun—
Erupting in cheer
at Hatteberg’s shot:
Twenty fucking
victories
In a row, doing
what no baseball
Club has ever done
before or
Since—hiring a
genius, that is.
All our nightmares
come true.
‘Nother real estate
owner
Giving away
millions to aging sluggers with
Elongated careers
and neckless wonders.
Los Angeles, you
wish, Anaheim.
Scioscia, too, is
such an ass.
Rawhide team of too
many colors, it’s
Always a slugfest
in Arlington
Never a pitchers’
duel.
Game after game in
gale-force winds
Eminent sluggers
try to salvage
Rookie pitchers.
They always
Swoon in August.
It’s just too hot in that endless
parking
lot they call a stadium.
God, what an awful
excuse for a team:
International
League rejects
And Silicon Valley tech
bro fanboys—
Nonetheless losers
of more World Series’
Than any other club
ever, outclassed
Suburban shills; it
used to take a Candlestick in the fog to find ‘em.
Dodging streetcars
in LA?
Oh, dem bums is
always blue
Down by the old
slaughterhouse.
Goin’ west, where
the SoCal sky
Enhances their unis.
Regionalism
betrayed, but it’s
Still hard to sing ill
of Jackie’s courageous club.
(‘cept maybe for la Sorda—I hear
he’s a jerk.)
Best name in
baseball, it
Reminds us of our
German heritage and
Eschews Wisconsin’s
milk or cheese for a can;
Where Barney slides
into a giant mug of it
Every time the home
team homers, his
Rear-end surely
sore when Hammerin’ Hank
Stepped to the
plate there, those last two years.
Tin stadia were the
best
I think, despite
(or because of) the noise they made.
Gothic script, too,
for yr logo
Engenders Baseball
with tradition.
Regardless of
agency,
Sometimes better
things are best left alone.
Red, the commie
color
Embraced by a
machine of short-haired
Decent young men
(‘cept for one bad flower) and Nazi-loving Marge
Schott—shame on
her.
Cuddly
Underachieving
Becursed
Southside scourge.
Riled up over
nuttin’
Every goddamned
year
“Death to the
Yankees!”
So goes the cheer,
Over-obsessed Sox
fans:
Xanax and mucho Milwaukee beer.
Yeah, we had to
hear way too much
About old Derek “the
klutz” Jeter;
Nothing else seemed
to matter for many a year.
Kinda got my goat,
the worst fielding shortstop
Ever paraded around
like
Elizabeth Taylor in
the tabloids.
Statistics don’t
lie, Joe Morgan.
Meet Mookie’s Mets
(Enclitic for
Metropolitans),
The other guys in
New York,
Suturing the wound
of West Coast abandonment.
Now some say
baseball
Actually reflects
American history—
This may well be
true.
I noticed that when
the Expos
Outlived their
Canadian welcome, the
Nat’s eschewed to
become “Senators” (thrice removed)
And found a
suitable national replacement.
Let’s hear it for
our millennial Washingtonians; seems they know
“Senator” ’s since
become an even dirtier word than...
9/2015
Florence
P.S.
Cheer for Chad,
Handiman of the
Athletics, his name
so
Damn close to the
Poet who, all those
many centuries ago,
Inscribed verses
for athletes both
National and
Barbarian, in
Demotic verse,
Eternally inspiring
Readers and
poetasters alike to misread his e for an A.
4/17/2022
Florence
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