Best Umpire Poems
There’s nothing like a sat’dy when the dews still on the ground,
and I can take me young bloke where they kick a ball around.
To see the highs and lows of me kid who does his best,
and barrack till I’m hoarse by encouraging the rest.
When we’re winning I’m a grinner and a happy chap at least,
but when fortune doesn't smile there’s the hinting of a beast,
and on this day we’re losing but me young bloke’s playing well,
so I made a move to tell him when they rang the half time bell.
I wondered why the coach had beckoned him, over to his side,
where he’s giving him a lecture and me young bloke nearly cried.
He’s played a ripper game, considering the situation.
I stood behind the coach and heard the tail end of his conversation.
He mentioned that with footy it’s the spirit of the contest.
It’s important not to swear at others when they do their best.
When an umpire makes decisions that you might see as wrong
you must not throw a tantrum or keep slandering on and on.
“Do you understand what I’ve just said”, the coach said to me son.
“This club has got a reputation and this is not the way it’s done”.
I was just about to step in when the coach said “Now me lad,
I want you to take what I just said and explain it to your dad”.
Standing at the plate there is no doubt
The pitcher is determined to strike me out
He squints to see the catcher's glove
Then spins and swings his arms above
The ball scorches a path across the plate
I feebly swing six days too late
The umpire acts like he's having fun
When he bellowed out, "STRIKE ONE!"
Again the pitcher stares at the dish
While I silently make a wish
Not a big request at all
I only want to hit the ball
The pitcher rears back and throws a curve
The ball starts over there and then begins to swerve
I miss so badly I hit the ground
I can hear people laughing all the way back in town
The umpire is having a belly laugh too
As he holds up two fingers and shouts, "STRIKE TWO!"
The pitcher is doing a cocky dance
While behind the mound hiking up his pants
He looks smug and I hear the catcher say,
"Give it up boy, he's putting you away."
The pitcher shakes off signs 1,2,3
He's saving a special pitch just for me
He peeks out over the top of his glove
I can tell that this strikeout he already loves
He winds up like a crazy corkscrew
Slinging a pitch he has never threw
I close my eyes and jerk the bat
Somehow the bat finds where the ball is at
The crack was the loudest ever heard
Nowhere in this stadium can you hear a word
You can hear a pin drop in this place
Nary a smile on any face
You would think that ball was launched into outer space
But alas, it is just a dribbler to first base
I feel I should get out of town
When I saw the other team high-fiving on the mound
Dad said, "Don't worry son, we'll get them next time champ."
After all it was just my first bat at Little League camp!
OWSZAT
The match was slow and boring
The runs were far between,
And an air of dreamy somnolence
Hung o’er the village green.
Then out from the pavilion
A handsome figure ran.
The crowd sat up, paid notice,
A loud applause began.
The stranger sprinted round the pitch
Disrupting all the match,
The fielder halted in his stride
And dropped an easy catch.
The umpire tried to intervene
His finger raised in protest,
The streaker slipped beneath his guard,
It really was no contest.
The team stood up and egged him on
And cheered as he gained speed,
It was a very daring act
They one and all agreed.
But when his little dangly bits
Removed the Home Team’s wicket,
A cry went roaring round the ground
“Egad Sir – that’s not cricket!”
Two Words
Dream
Scheme
Beam
Team
Shout
Pout
Duel
Shot
Life
Death
Brain
Drain
Stupid
Cupid
Dumb
Numb
Rum
Thumb
Prosecute
Electrocute
Einstein
Infinity
Immigrant
Us
Atom
Bomb
Strength
Weakness
Love
Hurt
Fate
Destiny
God
Cosmos
Lucifer
Lost
Passion
Torpid
Feelings
Flatline
Politician
Huckster
Glorious
Despicable
Moon
Mars
Space
Race
Beguile
Style
Truth
Lie
Cake
Pie
Bicycle
Tricycle
Car
Jar
Balloon
Burst
First
Last
Lust
Like
Fist
Fight
Right
Write
Left
Deft
Genius
Idiot
Manners
Rude
Give
Take
Rate
Deflate
Washington
Jefferson
Hamilton
Burr
Trump
Nixon
Hitler
Wotan
Karloff
Lugosi
Frankenstein
Dracula
Foot
Fall
Think
Blink
Popcorn
Unicorn
Coffin
Fly
Fish
Fry
Good
Bad
Think
Drink
Smile
Scowl
Teeth
Towel
Grimace
Ace
Lash
Bash
Date
Hate
Hurry
Wait
Freeze
Animate
Brave
Wave
Holocaust
Heydrich
Fool
Drool
Slob
Blob
Dead
Undead
Alive
Thrive
Evolution
Revolution
Vampire
Umpire
Wire
Dire
Flour
Flower
Alien
Robot
Klaatu
Gort
Tower
Power
Rush
Hour
Talk
Walk
Hysterical
Empirical
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
July 8, 2018 (Short-Form Free Verse)
I play my life like my kind of sport
I face opponents in badminton court
Racquet and shuttlecock on hand
Just flick the birdie to the other end
In high clear the quilled rubber flew
A sure defensive stance I often threw
Preventing a smash, parrying a score
Thus, the shuttle lands on the floor
The green court is wide and long
Knees must be fast and strong
Calculated serves oddly placed
Unreturned, I can score an ace
I seldom position myself at the back
Mostly in front to deflect all attacks
Drop shots to elude sharp drives
A kill will deflate opponents’ pride
In the middle, when the rally starts
That instant where I need to be smart
Flicked, pushed and dropped a net shot
The umpire called fault, although I was not
I may lose today, I might be in pain
But I’ll be back tomorrow to play again
I live my life like a badminton game
I play for fun and not for fame
Watch him there behind the plate
The guy referred to as "blue"
"Hey blue, you must be blind!
How could you call that ball strike two?"
He takes the ribbing all in stride
Been doing this for many years
Loves the game, the fans, the kids
Lots of fun and yes, sometimes tears
To soon the season will be over and done
But next year the kids will come to play
The ump will smile and call "batter up!"
He'll be having fun just like he is today….
My husband has been a Little League
Umpire of many years. He loves it!
Sir Leonard Hutton famous for cricket
Idolized him yet we played in the snicket
His bat willow three springs and all
Ours a joke no umpire to call
Yet did dream of 'Lords' having took a wicket.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
Somewhere there’s a baseball
Shivering in the cold
Somewhere there’s a baseball glove
Afraid of growing old.
Somewhere there’s a baseball bat
Some weary cleats - sweat stained hat.
Somewhere there’s a baseball field
Beneath snow’s winter fall
Somewhere dreaming children
Hear the umpire shout
“Play Ball”.
John G. Lawless
submitted to – Batter Up – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
During one game
The umpire noisily cried
"Deuce!"
So I politely replied
"Orange please!"
Form:
THE YOGI BERRA SONG
IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER
One run behind and I'm at bat, 2 are out,
I'll be damned if I don't get a hit.
I tell the catcher I'll be home in a while,
But he grins at me just for a bit.
Holding on first, I can still feel the ball,
But it's wild and I'm safe at first base.
That's where I stay, cause I can still hear it all,
What that chatcher told me right in my face.
It ain't over til it's over.
I tell the umpire to watch out for the man
who's at bat, cause he'll make his own way.
I'm stealing second, though it's not a good plan
cause that catcher hardly misses a play.
I feel the ball and it's faster than me,
But the second baseman's foot is too late.
There comes the call, and I'm as safe as can be,
But on second base, I know I must wait.
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over.
I hear the hit and it's a good one I know,
it's the winning run, if I go on
Passing by third I'll tie the game if I go
on to home, or the whole game is gone.
I feel the magic, it's the reason I play
and I love coming out from behind!
Home plate is hardly just a leg length away,
But his words keep on nagging my mind!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
Kill the umpire!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
It ain't over. It ain't over til it's over!
You're out!
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
No, if you know your baseball, you will know why
this runner can not score. See notes below if you
don't figure it out.
If I were to venture a sports analogy,
I'd say life most resembles baseball spiritually.
We spend eons preparing in the dugout,
Then nervously strut out to take our time at bat.
The rival coach directing our adversaries
Is the Father Of Lies and man's false philosophies.
His goal is to prevent us from reaching home plate safely.
His team's minions outnumber us near-infinitely.
The rival pitcher has icy practiced steel-like nerves,
And he's struck out many with foul spitballs and curves.
He pitches things like sloth, envy, greed, media idolatry,
Addictions, “Pro Choice”, perversions, **** and other immorality.
Our beloved Coach whispers to us from the dugout.
HE famously scored grand slams when HE went to bat.
If we listen to Our Coach, and with spirit swing fast and hard,
We'll knock those pitcher’s balls clean out of the yard.
HE knows we won’t always hit solid homers,
So HE doesn’t expect us to succeed just as loners.
We might on our swing just make it to first base,
But the team batters behind us can help us reach home base.
Even though the adversary’s minions outnumber us,
Only our choices will allow them to defeat us.
So with our Coach and team we must stand up,
When the Great Umpire of all calls “Batter Up!”.
The struggle of life.........
The battle is not over, either the peace is not dead
Between the struggle of life is a pain in the world
The objects are not achieved
either the struggle have brought triumph
Between the two walls of hatred, life still found horrible
The games are played in the battlefield with human life
while God is kept as an Umpire
In the battlefield men grapple each other and die
and bring glory for his country just for nothing
We are human creature and our life is a great mystery
And day to day we are living with paralyzing fear
Our life is so much of struggle without peace
and sweeping with confused thoughts.
We travel different journeys with different paths
Our journey is either short or long
but never meant to stay for ever
But during our stay we have to find a peace of life
and it is only possible through the Kingdom of Heaven.
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
All rights are reserved
Toiling in the dirt,
looking down as if the ground had all the answers.
Waiting for the wind-up,
Delivery is birthed like each throw is its own child coming into the world.
The lonely moment fleeting as the swish of the ball is cutting the air
punctuated by the Snap of the mitt.
Framing the pitch,
"Ball 1!" Umpire screams
Still framing the ball...
a sure sign of non-agreement
Defense of your pitcher.
Soft tossed back to the mound,
flashing a sign,
reading the game,
The base-runners,
The batter steps in
Talking to yourself the body shows the conversations highlight.
"Come down main street", the catcher sits up in her stance.
"No crazy dives into the dirt, runner on second" ...the mitt is open like a hippos mouth in water to show the target.
The Pitch,
The Mitt Snap
Soft toss back
Squatting behind the plate,
toiling in the dirt,
head down,
flash a sign,
read the game,
the situation
2 out, man on 2nd, 3-3 count
"Lets do it again"
The catcher kneels,
waiting for the strike!
Score's zip to zilch, last inning's near halfway through
at Gettysburg Commons' baseball league playoff.
Champion Graycoats at their posts hitherto -
Blue Jackets hear the pitcher's husky cough -
a clue to the catcher - this batter's toast.
Pickett lobs the pitch from high on his perch,
Meade smacks it past the church house roof almost -
a bolt from the Blue, Gray gets lost in the search
and Meade makes an easy trip 'round three bases.
Hancock is next and takes his turn with relief.
He whacks one to the pitcher of all places
running like blue blazes in disbelief.
He speeds to first base while Meade makes it on in.
Then Hancock circles the field - score is ought-two
As Pickett sits on the ball holding his shin.
In shock, he volleys a few words of blue.
The umpire approaches, a'raisin' his hands,
"I heard balderdash," he bawls with a frown.
"Game's called for cussin', but the score still stands."
Singing the blues, Graycoats hand over the crown.
New "toasts" of the town are Hancock and G. Meade.
They both talk a blue streak to boast of the coup.
Dazed by their disbelief, Graycoats recede.
And for weeks, Gen'ral Pickett's leg's - black and blue.
written 12 January 2015
The first three pitches: just outside. Pitch four:
right at the knees - "Steerike!", the umpire calls.
I wait to get the pitch I'm hoping for…
The next toss: high and tight... a base on balls.
I take my lead. I check the signs and frown -
he throws, I dive, dirt in my eyes - the worst!
The batter squares to bunt and lays one down -
a gem! I slide, they throw him out at first.
I get a bigger lead at second base -
my 3rd base coach gives signs without a word.
My fingers twitch, the pitcher deals, I race
like Rickey sliding head first, I steal third.
Long fly - I tag and slide under the mitt…
we score the winning run without a hit!
// Hats off to Rickey Henderson, all-time stolen base leader. With home
runs dominating the sport today, I thought I'd go 'old school' and pay a
tribute to 'small ball' from days of yore. They call it 'manufacturing a run'
when a team can score without the benefit of a hit. Many thanks to
Gershon Wolf for challenging me to write my first baseball sonnet! //
written 18 Oct 2020