Why the NFL’s preseason games are dull

Pre-season games don’t have the thrill
like those that are official will.
I guess it’s like a cousin’s kiss
compared to your sweetheart’s.

It’s dress rehearsal. Nothing more.
There’s not much interest in the score.
The veteran dancers step aside
so stand-ins can step up.

But dress rehearsals have their place.
And with football that is the case.
They line up on a spot-lit stage
to see whose learned their steps.

The rookies know this is the time
to do their best to try to shine.
They know that if they don’t impress
it’s likely they’ll be cut.

And for us fans it is the chance
to get psyched up for autumn’s dance
when ballet’s best with pads and cleats
will spin and leap with grace.

Worshipping a Dead King

The absurdity of Elvis Mania.

They loved him true and tender
although he did things his way.
And now three long decades later
their love just won’t go away.

They’re crying in the chapel.
In the jailhouse weeping’s heard.
In the ghetto and in Vegas
he’s still worshiped. It’s absurd.

His fans remain in mourning.
Like his suede shoes they are blue.
There at Graceland hound dogs whimper.
And hotels are heart-broke too.

So Elvis Aaron Presley
wears his gilded crown in death.
Seems his grave vault is a throne room.
For his fans he’s king, not myth.

A home run ball reflects on making history (with apologies to John Magee)

Oh, I was hit by surly Bonds at bat
and danced the skies on tarnished silvered wings.
Sunward I climbed (a much-sought baseball stat),
beyond the wall. A record-breaking thing
of which I long had dreamed. To be that privileged ball
whacked high in the sunlit silence amid fans’ frenzied praise.
To be the orb Hank Aaron hoped would stall
and then perchance just melt from solar rays.
But how was I to know the reason why
I topped the windswept heights with easy grace
was rooted in deceit and covered lies?
My dreams for fame became nightmarish pain.
In spite of being claimed by Cooperstown,
my legacy will always be a shame.
The home run ball hit by the steroids clown.

A King Not Worthy of His Throne

The name is Bonds.
Barry Bonds.
But it dawns on me
we don’t know the agent
that services Mr. Bonds’ secret.

Alas, Barry’s claim
of home run fame
would best be buried
(or better yet forgotten).

Holy Moses!
In my book,
Aaron still reigns.
After all, he’s the brother
worthy of attention.
Do I even need to mention
that steroids weren’t a factor
in the game Henry played?

When Hank yanked a homer,
he spanked it with brute strength.
He made that little horsehide cry
as he lifted it over the fence.

In the land of the chemically free
and the home of the Braves,
Aaron belted his record number
of round trippers
in a manner worthy of a god.

How odd then that Bobby’s son
is now being called the home run king.
He’s merely a prince
whose crowning achievement
was getting juiced
without getting caught.

A big black eye on big league sports;
Lamenting for Lindsay and Her Friends

Wide world of sports? A globe of grief?
Hoop dreams are now nightmares.
Officially the NBA has done
what no one dared.

A referee who bets on games?
That’s tech-ni-cal-ly foul.
Just how much will the faithful take
before they toss the towel?

The NBA is not alone.
The NFL’s the same.
A quarterback who breaks the law
brings scandal to the game.

And what about the Tour de France?
Those cyclists are dopes.
They fail their drug tests right and left.
Their grade’s a break-neck slope.

And MLB is not home free.
It’s really dropped the ball.
The still let steroids on the field
as well as in Fame’s Hall.

It’s such a shame. These athletes
make millions every year.
It’s criminal. It’s scandalous.
Let’s blow the whistle! Hear?

Lamenting for Lindsay and Her Friends
A prayer for young celebrity addicts

A Paris adventure
is what Lindsay needs.
Her habit just won’t seem to break.
Perhaps spending time
behind bars (not in)
is what after all
it will take.

And maybe a Christian
to love her enough
and help her to understand grace.
To guide her to Jesus
and into His arms
where she’ll weep
in his loving embrace.

O God please save Lindsay
and Britney and those
who are bent on destroying their lives.
Help them come to the place
of admitting their need
so that sober and sane
they’ll survive.

A tribute to Chicago’s Wrigley Field

It is a place where ivy grows.
A field of dreams where Santo knows
that baseball fans of every team
can’t help but feel at home.

It is a park where home runs sail
when fly balls catch a west-east gale.
The Friendly Confines really are
when home team bats prevail.

It is a refuge near the Lake
with class and charm much like The Drake*
that calls to mind the glory years
that made Chicago great.

It is a storied stadium
the oldest park except for one
and that one boasts a monster green
where Boston’s Red Sox rule.

But give me Wrigley any day
where Lou Paniella’s Cubbies play
for win or lose in hot July
it’s cool just being there.

* The Drake is a historic luxury hotel on the lakefront in Chicago