Slide, Utley, Slide!

This blog has been dormant for some time, despite the amazing baseball that’s been going on this year, and my life has been changing a lot since then too. The blog may well go back to being dormant, I don’t know.

However, after the NLDS Game 2, John Thorn put out the call for song parodies of this 1880’s classic, and John Thorn doesn’t have to ask twice.

I played a game of baseball down at old Chavez Ravine
The crowd was intermittent, and the heat was fierce and keen
A nobler lot of people there might have chanced to play
But you would never hear that said from teammates in LA.
The game was quickly started while I sat on the bench
Waiting for Mattingly to call upon a would-be mensch.
Hernandez drew a walk and then it was my turn to bat,
Eked out a quiet single and there was no need to spat.

Slide, Utley, slide; the fray will never end
Slide, Utley, slide; your havoc they’ll suspend
If your blows are just too crushing, and you aren’t duly blushing
They won’t take you to Flushing; slide, Utley, slide!

Twas in the seventh inning they called me in, you’ll find
But once I got to first, moving along was on my mind.
But something was the matter, sure I couldn’t see the ball
But my slide into the base broke down Tejada’s leg and all
I was running down the baseline, I figured that he tripped
For when I tumbled into him, he got severely flipped.
‘Twas a most unpleasant feeling, though at first they called me out;
We both were ratlled, and that’s when the fans began to shout;

They overturned the play so to the base I got to go
The way they took Tejada out, it must have been a show.
On Gonzalez then depended the victory or defeat,
And he came through to show the world that we would not be beat.
Five to two was the score of the game when we got done,
But when I got suspended I thought that was much less fun.
The news got home ahead of me, they said I couldn’t play;
The fans told me that I should sue, and then began to say…

Defensive Indifference

Looking down at the stars, I know it’s clear
That, for all they care, I might not be here.
Defensive indifference follows errors,
Take a base in stride, not dread or terrors.

The stars may have their burning flame
But not because they know my name.
There need not be a true connection
For me to have this strange affection.

Admirer as I think I must
Be for these losers who’ll go bust,
I cannot now, I see them, say
I regret that I watch them play.

Should the stars disappear, being sold,
I’ll watch the backups and behold
This same affection, you would find–
After all this time, I can’t mind.

A Nerdy Parody

Nothing to do with sports and I’m not sure how many of my readers will get this, but some of you might. This idea hit me last night and then wrote itself and since I’m blogging so little I felt I’d share.

Two roads diverged alongside a wood.
And sorry I could not follow both
And be one settler, I thought good
To look ahead long as I could
While planning for some future growth.

I chose one after I’d compare,
Telling myself it’s just a game
But knowing chance can be unfair
Though as for that the chances there
Made them worth really about the same.

The other one, which I would spurn
Was built over by another track.
Oh, I had kept it for another turn!
Yet knowing how little we can learn
I doubted that I could ever go back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages on,
Two roads diverged by the wood, and I–
I made my choice, and that is why
I lost at Settlers of Catan.


‘Twas brilliant, and the slit to
Did gyroscope and humble in the wane;
All mums  were the borough,
And the moment rather outgrow.

“Beware the Jabbed, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Kinkier bird, and shun
The Drum Banded!”

He took his corps sword in hand:
Long time the Man foe he sought–
So rested he by the Tim tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabbed, with eyes of flame,
Came whiff through the till wood,
And burn as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The corps blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went halibut back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabbed?
Come to my arms, my beaming boy!
O drank day! Callous! Calls!”
He chorus in his joy.

”Twas brilliant, and the slit to
Did gyroscope and humble in the wane;
All mums  were the borough,
And the moment rather outgrow.

by Lewis Carroll and my cell phone’s predictive text function

That Trojan War guy

It will not profit an old languid king
By this still ash, among bland arid crags
Stuck with an cranky woman, just to script
Unjust laws for a group of louts and fools
That hoard, and nap, and drink, and know not him.

I cannot stop voyaging. I will drink
All drops of this world. I had lots of fun
And had a lot of pain, both on my own
And with my good companions. On land and
As rainy stars through scuddding drifts would haunt
A dim bay. Now I am a titular
Man, always roaming with a hungry mind.
I saw and know a lot; towns and harbors
And customs, tropics, councils, and monarchs.
And I was not last among this grand crowd.
I drunk in giddy joy of war with troops
Far on a ringing plain of windy Troy.
I am a part of all I run across.
But all I do is just an arch, through which
To squint at that unfound world. Its margin
Will blur always and always as I walk.
How dull it is to halt, to call a stop,
To rust in a scabbard and not to glow!
As though surviving was living. Just hours
Is all too small, and not a lot is still
Around, but any hour I clutch
From that still that will not stop. It’s a thing
That can bring many things with it. How wrong
Just for four suns to sit and hoard my mind
And this gray spirit craving a long trip
To follow truth as if a sinking star
Until an utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, my own only offspring
For whom I put down this crown and island,
I’m a fan of him, who’ll try to fulfill
This labor, by slow toil to turn mild
A brutal folk, and through soft urgings to
Instil productivity, show what’s good.
Without any guilt, working in a job
Of common duty, kind, happy, won’t fail
In pansy hugging work or stuff, and pay
Fair adoration to our local gods
Ruling on his own. His work works for him.

That is my port; my boat puffs out its sail
A dark broad bay now glooms. My sailors, you
Souls that would toil, and wrought, and thought as I,
That always with a joyful frolic took
Storms and fair days, in opposition to
Brows, scalps and minds–you know I’m also old.
Saturn still has his honor and his toil
And all will pass away, but not right now.
A work of nobility can occur
Fitting of warriors that could fight Gods.
And now lights will start shining down from rocks.
A long day rolls on. A slow lunar climb
Occurs, and many sounds moan round us. Hark,
‘Tis not too hard to look for a far world.
Push off, and sitting all in a row, lash
At sounding furrows, for it is my goal
To sail past that horizon, and all baths
Of all far-off stars, until I cannot.
Possibly distant gulfs will wash us down.
Possibly our boat shall find islands fair
And run across grand champions of Troy.
Though much is fading, much will last, and though,
I am not now as strong as, in old days
I was to push on land and sky, that which
I am, I am. A mix of all of you
Not as strong as in past, but strong in will
To fight, to look, to find, and not to quit.

Based on certain of yesterday’s events, although coincidentally not the Iowa caucus

I met a traveler from an ancient time.
Translation was tricky, far from her home
But we bonded over meter and rhyme
As she recited some forgotten poem.

She paged through an anthology I found.
We spoke of lines, and where a line should break.
We spoke of how a poem should look or sound;
What was a good start, what was a mistake.

She knew some odes to gems; pearl or obsidian,
That glittered, or had glittered in the past.
She read about ongoings more quotidian
From my peers. Well, her era couldn’t last.

“Did you–” I tried to say, “know more of truth?”
She left. I hid within a voting booth.


Out of night that will still surround,
Black as a pit, no start, no goal,
I thank what gods may watch unfound
For my rigid, unflinching soul.

In a tight clutch of random luck
I do not turn nor cry aloud.
Through assault, still I will not duck
I am bloody, but I stand proud.

This wrath cannot but push down ways
In which horror looms. But I’m staid
And so risks of oncoming days
Find, and shall find, I’m unafraid.

Of no import if a gap’s strait,
How full of judging doom a scroll,
How tall my climb, how long my wait,
For I am captain of my soul.