Happy Birthday, Bobby Valentine!

Today is the birthday of one Bobby V,
Who starred in a film that you all ought to see.
It airs at 9 Eastern, on ESPN,
And it has a good dose of some pure Bobby Zen.

The filmmakers took on a fresh attitude;
tried biking and subways and every town's food;
To learn about yakyuu -- that was the main plan --
But also to bring home a slice of Japan.

The camera followed through cold days and warm;
adventures on Fuji in darkness and storm;
They saw highschool baseball, and sumo as well,
and tried karaoke and gave Bobby hell.

Of baseball, the passion's what really appealed --
The true dedication both on- and off-field.
They filmed from the dugout, the rooftop, the stands,
And captured the spirit of players and fans.

To Bobby: we thank you for being so vocal
on improving the game AND on keeping it local.
So for all that you've done and for all that you do --
Have another great year! Happy birthday to you!!



(Photo taken by Larry Rocca, and presented without explanation, because it's funnier this way, I think.)

Fighters Folio: The Spaceman Sonnet

This is a sequel to Kaneko to Kensuke to Guts. This one's about LF Hichori Morimoto, CF Tsuyoshi Shinjo, and RF Atsunori Inaba.

Yeah, this is really what I do when I'm trying to come up with things to write in the offseason (and trying to ignore Ogasawara-related hot stove gossip). I wonder if it'd be worth trying to translate these and send them to the team somehow.

Aliens In The Outfield

In outer space, in outer field, these three
Would often wear their gloves instead of caps;
The strangest of the spacemen, Hichori
From Piccolo to playoffs, manned the gaps.
The tone was set by Shinjo; he performed
Flamboyant stunts and skillful fielding plays;
To all these crazy things Inaba warmed
And in the Series set his bat ablaze.
They ran to walls, to tracks, to catch, to throw,
To bring the team a victory at last,
Their feats behind the plate would also grow,
One got on base, the other drove him past.
It ended in a leap, a hug goodbye,
From teammate shoulders, Shinjo soon would fly.

Friday Folio: Kaneko to Kensuke to Guts

This goes out to nanbanjin from the japanesebaseball.com forums, who probably didn't realize I take dares/requests like this seriously.

(for reference: I ended up stressing the second syllable of Kaneko, which isn't really right. Kensuke is two syllables (if you've never heard it yelled, "KEN-SKAY"). "hachi" 蜂 is a bee and "tonbo" 蜻蛉 is a dragonfly and that was really just me being a total dork. The challenge was to write a poem about the Nippon Ham Fighters' double-play combo, sort of along the lines of "Tinker to Evers to Chance", so this is about shortstop Makoto Kaneko, second baseman Kensuke Tanaka, and first baseman Michihiro "Guts" Ogasawara.)

Kaneko to Kensuke to Guts

Twas forty-four years since we'd last won a series
The reason for this had eluded all theories.
This season was different; more focused, intense
We had a great weapon: our infield defense,
Kaneko, Tanaka, and Guts.

More known for his fielding instead of his bat,
Our golden glove shortstop, team leader at that.
He zips through the air like a hachi or tonbo
For turning a grounder or double-play combo
Kaneko to Kensuke to Guts.

"The other Tanaka", as we used to know him,
Can hit 'em, can bunt 'em, can field 'em and throw 'em.
One play's in the outfield away from the bags
Next instant he's back, slapping down pickoff tags
And throwing the baseball to Guts.

Then over at first base (and sometimes at third)
As lithe as a tiger and sharp as a bird,
No liner gets past him, no throw is too high,
As steady as mountains and endless as sky
Our samurai batsman, our Guts.

The squadron of Dragons prepared their attacks
But we quenched all their fires, defending the sacks.
Though baserunners happened, no runs would they get;
This talented keystone would end any threat,
Kaneko to Kensuke to Guts.

Dirt Diamond Double Dactyls, Part 1

I blame Athletics Nation's "poet" "laureate" Monkeyball for this, but every now and then I get on another Double Dactyl writing kick. Now I find myself compulsively looking through rosters for guys with dactyls for their last names.

Anyway, I wrote one in an AN comment and a second one just now for the heck of it, and though I was planning to start writing a Japan Series preview tonight, I may end up adding to these instead. Join me! It's a surprisingly addictive and fun poetry form.

1.
Higgledy-piggledy,
Ellis and Scutaro
noticed a pattern while
viewing their splits:
"Phooey on Beane and his
on-base-percentages,
Moneyball, schmoneyball,
We just get hits."

2.
Higgledy-piggledy,
Washburn and Johjima
Argued a bit in a
chat on the mound:
"Seems that our problem's not
Communicational,
Japanese, schmapanese,
Keep the ball DOWN!"

Book Review: The Annotated Casey at the Bat, by Martin Gardner

The Annotated Casey at the Bat, by Martin Gardner

The other day I hung out at the Elliott Bay Book Company with fellow blog citizen Ryan H, and he was very kind and let me geek out about baseball with him for several hours. (I hate the offseason. Everybody just wants to talk about that sport with the prolate spheroid and the Jacobsenesque guys slamdancing.) I wasn't intending to buy any books, but I found this book full of Casey at the Bat parodies and tributes, and well, I've kind of had that poem going through my head since a few weeks ago. So, I couldn't resist.

If you are a fan of Casey at all, you need this book. No, really, you do. I had no idea there were so many other parodies and versions and takes on Casey. It's all levels of awesome.

The book delves into the history of the poem itself and the various versions, as well as the actual characters surrounding Our Hero, including lineups for the Mudville Nine, assorted players for Centerville, Casey's family, the pitcher (James Riley "Fireball" Snedeker. I never even knew he had a name!) who fanned Casey, etc.

First, there are several versions by Thayer himself. Then there are several tributes by the legendary sportswriter Grantland Rice, which range from as simple as Casey actually hitting the ball, to a sad ballad about the desertion of Mudville, to a brilliant little ditty depicting Casey as "The Man Who Played With Anson on the Old Chicago Team", but culminating in the ultimate poetic snarkiness, as he writes a poem as a response to a letter he received saying "I enjoyed your Casey poem, but what is the original about?" called "He Never Heard of Casey!" An excerpt:

Ten million never heard of Keats, or Shelley, Burns, or Poe;
But they know "the air was shattered by the force of Casey's blow";
They never heard of Shakespeare, nor of Dickens, like as not,
But they know the somber drama from old Mudville's haunted lot.

He never heard of Casey! Am I dreaming? Is it true?
Is fame but wind-blown ashes when the summer day is through?
Does greatness fade so quickly and is grandeur doomed to die
That bloomed in early morning, ere the dusk rides down the sky?

Granny Rice's stuff is fabulous, but there's even more that follows. We have more "revenge of Casey" style poems where he actually gets the hit at the end. In some of these, Casey is in his forties, or even in his sixties. We have a few poems that try to pinpoint the blame for Casey's bad fortune -- a cross-eyed bat boy, a spitballing pitcher, what have you. We also have the rest of Casey's family come to the plate -- poems about his son, his daughter, his sister, even his wife's antics in the batter's box grace the pages of this tome. A couple of times, we actually have Casey as a pitcher, oftentimes getting his revenge on the Centerville team.

There's even, of course, the Mad Magazine "Get a teenager to translate it for you" version that was published in 1960. You don't even really need the explanatory paragraph to figure that out, honestly:

Ten thousand peepers piped him as he rubbed fuzz on his palms;
Five thousand choppers grooved it when he smeared some on his arms.
Then while the shook-up pitcher twirled the ball snagged in his clutch,
A hip look lit up Casey. Man, this cat was just too much!

And now the crazy mixed-up ball went flying out through space.
But Casey, he just eyed it with a cool look on his face.
Right at that charged-up sideman, the old ball really sailed--
"That's so far out," sang Casey. "Like, Strike One!" the umpire wailed.

The British writer J.A. Lindon contributes two pure gems as well - the first is Casey in outer space, aka Casey At The Cap, and the other is, of course, the Village Cricket Casey. They are both great, though I think the kicker is Lindon's excellent palindrome:

Won't I help? Miss it in mad stab? Yes, a Casey bats. Damn! It is simple -- hit now.

Anyway, there is a football version as well (boo!) called "O'Toole's Touchdown" which is immediately recognizeable as well ("And so when Cohen lost five yards, and Zipkin did the same / A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.")

But I must tell you that none of these are even remotely comparible to the very last entry in this anthology, which is "Ahab At The Helm" by none other than Ray Bradbury. I'm not sure it gets much better than this:

It looked extremely rocky for the Melville nine that day,
The score stood at two lowerings, with one lowering yet to play,
And when Fedallah died and rose, and others did the same
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of this Game.

A straggling few downed-oars to go, leaving behind the rest,
With that hope that springs eternal from the blind dark human breast.
They prayed that Captain Ahab's rage would thrust, strike, overwhelm!
They'd wager "Death to Moby!" with old Ahab at the helm.

I think you've gotten the idea by now -- and in theory, if you enjoyed the few snippets I've included here, you'll enjoy the rest of the poems. It's a truly wonderful collection of literary, mostly-baseball-related delight. Hell, even the Amazon review I see (another Casey parody) is funny.

As an aside, though -- this is NOT a bus book by any means. This book is best enjoyed at home where you can read all of the poems aloud and enjoy the meter and imagery -- also, it's rather embarrassing when you burst out laughing on the bus, really. I think it'd be a lot of fun for a couple of baseball fans to read together, or perhaps for a parent to read to a child.

The Postseason, Ernest Lawrence Thayer Style

A poetic parody by Deanna Rubin.

(The original poem - Casey At The Bat)
(The inspiration for this - Jayson Stark)
(The game - 10/17, Cards 5, Astros 4)

Pujols At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Cardinal nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Luna struck out hard, and Mabry did the same,
A crazy cheering started from the patrons of the game.

The Astros needed just one out to be the NL champs;
The stadium erupted more in waves of claps and stamps.
LaRussa knew if Pujols could but get a whack at that--
They still might have a chance to score with Pujols at the bat.

But X preceded Pujols, and Jim Edmonds did as well;
And the former was a midget and the latter was a kvell.
So upon that rooting multitude high confidences sat
For there seemed but little chance of Pujols getting up to bat.

But Eckstein hit a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Edmonds, with great patience, didn't swing at the fourth ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the perfect save had burst,
There was Eckstein poised at second as Jim Edmonds walked to first.

Then forty thousand throats and more had sudd'nly ceased to cheer;
The silence filled the outfield, it smothered fans with fear;
It hushed upon the dugouts and recoiled upon the flat,
For Pujols, Albert Pujols, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Albert's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Albert's bearing, but no smile upon his face.
And as he stepped into the box, eyes narrowed like a cat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Pujols at the bat.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Pujols stood a-watching it for a split second there.
He swung wild at the slider, but his form had briefly fled,
"That pitch was tough," thought Pujols. "Strike one," the umpire said.

"YES!" cried the maddened thousands, and it echoed out abroad;
But one stoic look from Pujols and the audience was awed.
They saw him start to concentrate, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Pujols wouldn't let that ball go by again.

He tenses up his upper arms, he starts to shift his weight;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now Brad Lidge winds up the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by a Pujols crushing blow.

The ball rose up into the air, it seemed 'twould never land;
And all the crowd was silent as it flew over the stand.
The players ran the bases, the ball soared in its arc
It hit the glassy outer wall, high up above the park.

Oh, somewhere in this southern state the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere fans are cheering, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Houston - Mighty Pujols slammed one out.