Large diamonds found in manicured lawns,
When at last the vernal season dawns,
Are more precious than a sparkling jeweled stone,
And for winter, more than adequately atone.
The grapefruit and cactus are not mere plants.
They’re leagues of athletes decked in pants,
With cap and cleats, a belt and glove.
These ballplayers play the game we love.
With bullpens and dugouts, boxes and bags,
From plate to pole where a fielder shags,
A “park” is truly a fitting name,
For groundkeepers merit wide acclaim.
The Spendid Splinter taught the Science of Hitting.
Then Tom Terrific wrote the Art of Pitching.
It is a mental game, no doubt,
But physical feats cause fans to shout.
Sabermetric facts and a savvy scout
Can determine a shut-out or a rout.
Like Heaven, there is no clock.
Umpires decide how long they can talk.
The pace is always pensive, never frantic,
As they ponder strategy and tactic.
There’s always time to win the game,
To hit the walk-off and trot to fame.
No graceful movement in ballet
Can equal a six-four-three double-play.
The only violence is directed at the ball,
So players can stay healthy till the fall.
For basketball, men must be tall,
And massive and mighty for football,
But our nation’s pastime is open to all,
For great ones have been stout or small.
Lead-offs could get thirty steals
If back-stops don’t get on their heels.
Flares in the gap or bounders in the hole
Can score like drives inside the pole.
The third base coach goes through his signs,
The catcher too before the lefty winds.
To contend throughout the pennant race,
The club needs arms to back their ace.
Although a team of nine opposes one,
A potent swing can score the needed run,
If they can hit the heater or the knuckler,
The sinker, slider, curve or cutter.
By gripping the seams this way and that,
The pitcher avoids contact with the bat.
Young arms can jolt the radar gun.
Finesse, though, rules by lights or Sun.
From long man to set up and closer,
They run from the pen to the rubber,
While tens of thousands clap and cheer
From boxseats to bleachers with peanuts and beer.
The clean-up hitters smack to fame,
While mop-up pitchers work through shame.
Don’t argue the zone with the ump.
He’ll eject you from dish or from bump.
A homer ain’t a homer till
He runs the bases for a thrill,
As fans pay homage or feel hate
Until the slugger toes the plate.
Blest are they who see a rare display:
No-hitter, cycle, grand slam, triple play
Or breaking records ages old.
In Cooperstown, their deeds will be retold.
Hitting for average and for power,
While throwing a hundred miles per hour
With flawless defense and thieving speed,
Free agents should beware of greed.
October air is cool and clear
To test post-season hope and fear.
Divisions align like warring camps
To be the pennant or World Series champs.
Victors spray their champagne springs
On all those destined to wear rings.
Parading heroes ride through miles of friends.
Their joy abounds; their gratitude transcends.
