A Baseball Poem for America’s Team
I still believe the Atlanta Braves are America’s team. This year with the addition of farm leaguer, Jason Heyward, the Braves are garnering a lot of attention. Heyward is a rookie who does it all. He carries a big bat. Fields like a Golden Glover, and has an arm like a rocket.
This baseball poem is in honor of the Atlanta Braves and the J-Hey kid!
J-Hay moves to the Big Leagues
Too much time in the hot stove league, it was time to play the game.
His first days in the Big Show . Life would never be the same.
In the friendly confines of the Bush League he was hailed as the local fence buster.
Here he expected no curtain calls, he focused past all the Big League luster.
Spring training came in the Mickey Mouse league; on those fields he didn’t have much to prove.
Stepping into the bright lights of Turner Field, that’s where he needed his groove.
When it was finally his turn to step to the bat, there were two men on base for the young Cracker Jack.
The crowd growing frenzied he focused on playing. He heard them go wild when they heard the bat crack.
The J-Hey Kid knocked a homer his first Big Show at bat!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Baseball Poem for America’s Fans
Some kids are fortunate enough to grow up and play in the Big Leagues. Many kids dream of that day, but many of the best days of summer are spent with a handful of friends gathered on a big, empty lot playing your own game of baseball.
This poem is an ode to children young and old who have had the pleasure of playing Sandlot Baseball.
Sandlot Baseball
In a vacant lot filled with red clay and pebbles
The kids gathered, the Big Guns and Rebels.
They arrived one-by-one with bats slung over shoulders,
Tossing baseballs up and down like shiny, white boulders.
Old gloves with loose laces road the end of the bats.
They were well worn, some covered with caps.
Once they gathered the teams were already known,
The Big Guns were guests the Rebels were home.
Play could last an hour or a day.
There was no umpire to interrupt play.
Sometimes a scuffle cleared little wooden benches,
Usually when batters faced chin music pitches.
At the end of the day, it was just a game.
Tomorrow was sure to be much of the same.
Players scraped and muddy headed home for the day,
Always looking forward to the next day of play.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Poem for the game of Baseball
There are just certain things that come to mind when you think of going to a baseball game. From the community league at your local ballpark, to a Busch League game, or a trip to a Big League game some of the best things about baseball are always the same.
National pastime
“Popcorn and peanuts! ” the vendors yell,
As the crowd at the ballpark begins to swell.
Soggy hotdogs and ice cold beer,
Absolute signs that summer is here.
Children hang on the dugout begging players to sign.
Just after warm-ups the boys have enough time.
Organ music begins to play.
The baseball game is soon underway.
Sunflower seeds surround players feet.
They pop another mouthful and continue to eat.
Fans wave banners. Kids chase foul balls.
Coaches argue with umpire calls.
Fastballs, screw balls, floaters, and curves;
The best pitcher works the batter’s nerves.
The crowd feels the tension, now everyone’s in.
Ah, the feel of baseball. It’s summer again.
