With spring fresh upon us and no footballs to stare at,
it’s time for large diamonds, and not those of karats.
The grass is fresh-cut, the dirt good and packed;
it’s time: take your mind off those crazed Bush attacks.
With every season come faces both familiar and new:
Rocco Baldelli takes Tampa, 6-8 Sexson works his chew.
Godzilla came damn close to trampling New York;
A-Rod keeps hitting like his bat’s full of cork.
While some new developments are oh-so shock-shelling,
most are predictable as a below-par Rick Helling.
The Royals are rolling, the Tigers are not;
Tony Tarasco is somewhere smoking pot.
We’ve seen beanballs and peggings; it’s all no-holds-barred;
who decided to let Stone Cold into the yard?
Even mild-mannered Tino spent time pitcher-chasing;
his delayed mound-charging was a tactical revelation.
Baseball folk will tell you, without a hint of a snicker,
there’s nothing more sacred than a great starting pitcher.
Some are quick busts while some last like Don Rickles;
this year, the starters make roulette look predictable.
Unit and Schilling seem suspect, Pedro’s been shelled;
last year, if you told me, I’d say no way in hell.
Both Glavine and Maddux look decidedly human;
lucky for Yanks fans, half-drunk Boomer is boomin’.
The Brewers are loaded with second-tier talent;
tripped-out Ned Yost claims he’s up to the challenge.
Sheets is a stud, Leskanic a head-case;
they wish Bernie Brewer could play second base.
The Cubbies amazingly, lead the Central Division;
falling to last will take team-wide precision.
Sammy’s smashed helmet gave everyone a scare;
he skipped his skip after homering, like no one was there.
Comiskey is loaded with loaded ump-bashers;
they battle to see who gets bloodiest faster.
Every five days the umps won’t suffer alone:
they’ll be flanked by a bull named Bartolo Colon.
My Yankees just finished a classic Twin-bashin’,
with homers from Sori, Nick Johnson and Bri Cashman.
Alfonzo ripped a slam, Big Nick pitched in two,
and the Ca$hman’s the reason they’re in pinstripes of blue.
Like always, the Red Sox pretend they’re contenders —
at least until August, when they’re a lock to surrender.
Nomar is healthy, Hillenbrand might be a star.
One problem: their No. 2 RBI man is Kevin Millar.
All of a sudden there are seats on the Monster;
what’s coming next, a bevy of sponsors?
The Sox will soon pay for their rev-boosting tricks:
young Jeffrey Maier’s got first-row season tix.
There’s nothing more perfect than a great baseball name;
it seems a catchy handle can improve anyone’s game.
You think it’s just chance that Pokey Reese’s slick glove
puts to shame that of ol’ Eric Karros, the Cub?
To pitcher Nick Bierbrodt, who was made for Milwaukee,
I’ll be loading your namesake with mushrooms shitake.
To Korean Hee Sop Choi, of Chicago Cubs fame,
I’ll go brain-dead before I can’t remember your name.
Although the Cardinals’ Lance Painter is injury-bitten,
the redbird lefthander is the lone big-leaguer from Britain.
A more pressing question, if that weren’t enough:
How long can the Bud People stand righty Matt Duff?
I’m quite sympathetic towards Jesus Colome of the Rays;
he won’t match his namesake ’til he rises in three days.
A three-course meal starts with the Tribe’s Coco Crisp.
David Lamb’s up next; Brandon Duckworth completes the list.
Mitch Kramer from “Dazed” was named Wiley Wiggins,
the only moniker funnier than the Angels’ Chone Figgins.
Miguel Cairo hopes to put the Cards back on the map,
while the whole league avoids the feared Stubby Clapp.
Tarasco’s new buddy may just be Jung Bong,
Atlanta’s lefthander raised by Cheech and Chong.
Proving baseball’s not loaded with absurdly named clones,
for every Ty Wiggington, there’s a Dan Smith or Bob Jones.
So prepare for a summer of basepaths and beer —
our nation’s great pastime, in its 128th year.
Bonds and Sammy will be swinging for deep;
and you’d better get ready for the Yanks’ postseason sweep.
