Best Sports Poems Iv

The best sports poems by Michael R. Burch, Part IV King Henry the Great by Michael R. Burch Long live the King! Send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us: Long live the King! Long live the King! Send him like Sherman tanks Mowing down cornerbacks, Stiff-arming tiny ants: Long live the King! No T.O. by Michael R. Burch "I'm young, I'm big-hearted, but I'm just getting started." I'm running my own race at my own damn pace. T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town, but I'm A. J. Brown. Charlie Hustle by Michael R. Burch Crouch at the plate, intensity itself. Follow the flight of the streak of white with avid eyes and a heartfelt urge to let it fly. Sweep the short arc, feel the crack of a clean hit, pound the earth toward first. Edge into the base path, eyes relentlessly relentless. Watch his every movement; feel his every thought; forget all save his feet; see him stretch toward the plate... and fly! Fly along the basepath churning up the dirt, desire in your eyes. Slide around the outstretched glove, hear the throaty cry, 'He's safe! ' And lie in a puddle of sunlight soaking up the cheers. A Texas Leaguer dropping to the left-field side of center sends you on your way back home. Take the turn past third with fervor in your eyes and a fever in your step, the game just strides away... take them all and then slide your patented head-first slide across the guarded plate. Pause in the dust of your desires, loving the feel of the scalding sun and the roar of the crowd. Shake your head and tip your cap toward the clouds. Slap the dirt from your grass-stained shirt and head toward the clubhouse... just doing your job, but loving it because it is your life. The Sliding Rule by Michael R. Burch If you're not quite kosher, like Leo Durocher; or if you have a Pinocchio nose, like Peter Edward Rose; or if your life turns tragic, like Ervin Johnson's magic; or if your earthly heaven is stopped, like Howe's, at seven; or if you're a disciplinarian like Knight, but also a contrarian; or if like Joe you're shoeless because you're also clueless; or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson you work a little vice in; or like Daly working the jackpot you're less unlucky than merely a crackpot; or like Ruth you're better at drinking than at dieting and slinking; or perhaps like Andre Agassi's your triumphs are really your tragedies... though The Judge might call you a sinner, society'll proclaim you a WINNER!