Sunday, April 17, 2011
The following was found by the Cliff Hangers‘ janitor. It was scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper, and located at the bottom of the recently vacated locker of minor league center fielder, José Serna. Serna was recently traded away, but he apparently penned the following while riding the bench of the Yamauchi Plumbers. It is deemed worthy of release to the public, for posterity, in its entirety, not to be rebroadcast without the express permission of the Minarai Doumei.
Pitch it, rock ‘em, plunk ‘im, pop him. Rocket engine, end ‘em quickly. Slip it past ‘im slide it under. Hang the wrong one, watch a liner. Down the line now, under glove, how? Billy Buckner shocks his socks now. Rock it over, bend down rosin. Par tine Pine tar. Brush back, Brett’s racing back out of the dug-out. Bring that ball back, can’t come down now. Out of time now, take your time pal. Throw it over, mop it up now. Don’t get down boys. Down-town drive boys. Gas house gang now. Dean’s head empty. Bean in head boys, don’t lean in Roys. Dig in, drive it, step out, shake off. Muurrdrrerrrr’s Row, Chapman’s bad throw. Finger’s handlebar. Hit for cycle. Split finger, thumbs up. Pop-up, heads down. Down the pipe, in the groove. Smoked it, grand slam. Gibson broke it, Robinson stole it. Home plate? Yes sir, slid in safe then. Racket, black socks, scandal gamble. Say it ain’t so. Block it, in the dirt, scramble, ball loose. Lose it, one pitch, sacrifice, no hitch. Switch hit, base hit, cut the grass low. Charlie Hustle head first late throw. Cannon, rocket, sidewinder, clock-it. Movement, Charlie, dropping, in-tight, wood splits. Crack it, hear the crack, cracked bat pop-up. Over his head now, into second, rattles in the corner, no-hit goner. It’s back, back, back and out of here. Out of the zone, out of his strikes now, catcher backs it up, tags him out of there. Martin, Weaver, out of there once more. Good call, bad eyes, squeeze ball, fall flies. He’s rounding third, waved on, whiffed on. Pounding curves, lined to third now. Two and two. One, two, three there. Four, five, six men. Eight men out then. Whoa there, hold tight, bench clears big fight. Tigers, Cubbies, Dodgers, Rockies. Foxx and Sparky, Goose, Chick Hafey. Catfish Hunter, Yogi Bear too. Yankees, Red-sox, Yogi’s crack-ups. Bear down, run-down, bare hand, three down. Who’s up? You’re next. Who’s on first? What’s his name. Draw the walk, Larry Walker, tugs his hat, Tug McGraw chaw. Grover Cleveland Alexander, Braves and Indians. Foreign substance, watch your stance now. Tipped your pitch there, read them lips here. Don’t step into the bucket. Soft hands, quick feet. Sand-lot, raw heat. Put me in coach. In the base paths, on the back of Yaz. Throw down, heads up, mess up, slow down. On your feet, what a feat, when they meet, in the street. On your toes, quick and fleet, there he goes, and he throws, leaning, quick out. In the stretch, work out, stretch out. From the stretch, leans in, beans him. The crowd roars, fastball floors him. Players of that era are becoming rarer. Just as long as they don’t make an error. What a catch, catch the action. Don’t delay, dodge them trolleys. Let’s play two, play ball. Classics played in the fall. Double-header, chicken feathers. Casey Stangel in a tangle. Three-finger, slides in, bloop hit, Yankee Clipper. Cobb, Clemente, Ott, and Say Hey. Satchel, Rube Foster, half-full roster. Smoked one by him, man he smoked it. Smokey Joe, shoeless Joe. Bases full, count is full. On the diamond. Cutting corners. In the grand stands. Over the wall. Down the line. Out to left. In the dugout. In the bullpen. Game of nine men. He really dug for that single. He dug it out of the dirt. All out, for that out. Diving catch. Seeing-eye single. Frozen rope. Hot-style single. The ducks are on the pond. I’m the luckiest man in the world. All tied up here. Two out comeback. One out single, leadoff walk. Stand up double, shut-out inning. Damn Yankees! Dem Bums. Orioles, Cardinals, Blue-Jays, Marlins. Maris and Aaron, flock together. Ground rule double, spit balls now a rule. Delivery, rounding first. Collision at the plate. Leather and steel, felt and wool. Honus and Ichiro, cut from the same cloth. World Series, home-town, world classic, into the stretch. Small ball, called ball. They plump when you cook ‘em, touch ‘em all. Stick a fork in him, make a call. Pigs will fly when the Cubs win it all. Keep your eye on the ball! He got all of that one!
Seventh inning stretch. Hot dog, cracker jacks. It ain’t coming back, throw it back. Through the turnstiles, dressed in high style. Jerseys, ball cap. Towels and rally caps. Don’t forget the foam finger, listen to that national anthem singer. Watch the braves chop, clap on the one-hop. Pennants, placards. Watch that Packard. Famous name. Hall of fame. Retire that number, whiffs on another. Cowbells, organs, best of sports then. Nation’s past time, pennant race time. Front row seats, deeeeluxxe boxes. In the bleachers, presidential pitch, celebrity fans, Casey strikes out. Batboy, beer man, souvenir program. Get your pretzels here. Now it’s nachos. Started with rounders, what a gamer. Keep your score, backwards K. Hot Stove, winter meetings. Boy them Royals took a beating. Pitchers and Catchers report. Onto Opening day. On your feet for what a play. All knotted up on knotty benches. Belly acher. Little league, big league. Favorite in his own league. Trade ‘em, flip ‘em, gum pack save ‘em. Clickety click on the spokes then. Ump needs glasses. Cold one, frosty one, gets warm when you hold one. Nail biter, night lighter. Day game, walk of fame. Movie stars and singers drawn to the players. Dimaggio and A-Rod, off the field, now they’re studs. They don’t play ‘em like they used to. Hamstring, now they show their bling. Dead ball, juiced ball. On the juice, career dead. Dead arm. Under the knife. Tommy John, thrown a rod. Keith Hernandez, Timmy Raines, used the stuff from Coca Cola. Uberoth and Mountain Landis, politics by Ban Johnson. Branch Ricky brought the farm, stood alone against the current, made the race days not so current. Souse Paw, Mister Mcgraw. The big train, the big unit, cy young, forged in granite. Wild pitch, dropped it, stabbed it, blocked it. Diving save, do the wave! It’s a big one, blasted by Gibson. Green grass, dry turf, wet field, watch your footing. Pull the tarp on, rake the dust now. Chalk the lines and check the ground rules. Teddy Williams really thrills ‘em. Play ball, shoe-polish on the ball. He ran through the sign. Home run on bunt sign, means a fine. Cap, nose, ear, sign the batter, three finger shake-off, call time, just in time. Scoreboard, punch out. Thrown out, ground out, big out, just out. Beat the throw, man they look beat. Hot one, grueling. Take him out, leave him in. Pinch hit, pitch around. All-star, last place. Rising star, grizzly face. Cut-off man, fireman, basemen, bullpen. At the wall, on the track. Man I can’t believe he brought that back. Over the railing, into the stands, holds the ball up, ruling stands. Ninety feet, three-hundred seventy-five feet, sixty-feet six-inches. Twenty seven, one- hundred sixty-two, three thousand, four hundred. Save, hold, closer gold. Setup, lineup, slugger, stole. Triple Crown, knocked him down. Set them down and went the distance. Wait for yours, guard the plate. On the corner, painted the black. Toe the rubber, cracked the wrists. Foul ball, the wind blew it foul. Will it fair, wow they cheered. He stands in, follow the standings. Designated hitter, no-hitter. Perfect game, classic game. Catch him looking, swung right through it. What’s the score? Man I’m sore. Harry Caray in the booth. To sum it up, Baby Ruth.
Man I love this game.
