“And now for today’s prompt! (Remember — the prompts are optional! Feel free to ignore ‘em). This may not mean a lot to some of you, but today is Opening Day! For me, this means that rhythm and sanity are about to return to the world after the bleak, baseball-free months of winter. Baseball has had a unique hold over American poets — if you don’t believe me, check out all these poems and posts about baseball archived at the Poetry Foundation website.”
Admittedly, this has been the most challenging poem so far, mainly because I think baseball is a lot like Nascar in that I don’t have to explain my analogies, especially when they make no sense. So here’s a kindacorrido about a really groovy pitcher, man.
Me llamo Dock Ellis
Good day to you, good reader,
Le invito a que se acerque mas,
Ya empieza la historia de Dock Ellis
Who threw a no-hitter with no-fuss.
Ole Dock died back in twothousandeight,
Real old, bout 68.
He coulda lived a hundred years,
But fate is fate is fate.
He wasn’t much of Cy Young-tastic
Nor a Hammerin Hank clone.
His offspeed flew like cheap molasses,
But that no-hitter was badtothebone.
It’s just a story, I’ve heard people say,
Tu sabes vato, como el Alamo.
I say I’ve a mind for myth and legend
Fue la mala memoria que lo inmortalizó.
Si nunca han oído hablar del Dock,
Well now you got a reason,
He was stone free to do what he pleased
Y ese espíritu is always in season.
Yep. High quality there above me makes me wonder if my meditation is profound enough. But, for as much of a hero as Dock might be, substances defiled a pretty number. Gabers actually had his picture took in front of it last summer.
Some stars were written
After those names,
And after those settings,
I vote a flower’s name
Worth more than its bettings.
In fact, a few fueled no-nos
I might consider valid;
Considering that the bozos
At bat were unfairly rallied.
Even powdered Gooden
And juiced Strawberry
Weren’t prone to puttin
New records in the diary.
Dear San Francisco,
I love your 49’ers;
Home runs I dismiss though,
They’re lies for our minors.
But those who ain’t Brave
Might shuck it and jive.
And claim the new wave