Phil Gura

The ball fields have been silent here in the USA, And even in Korea, fans are all papier mache, Then Manfred, Mighty Manfred sent forth a bold decree, Grab your bats and balls and rosin, a new season there will be! Sixty games to reach the playoffs, we’ll begin in late July, Forget the Gulf Coast and the desert, the coronavirus’ nigh, You can train right at your home park, what is there not to like? So, pack your gloves and sanis and don’t forget your spikes.The players aren’t too happy; they feel they’re getting screwed, But really, to be honest, when hasn’t that been true? So off they’ll trudge to training, from New York to Anaheim, And soon we can all stop watching games from 1999. At least that’s what we’re hoping, who knows where this is heading? The virus hasn’t gone away, in fact it’s quickly spreading, The masks we wear are not a joke, despite what you have heard, And like so many rookies, we’ve had trouble with the curve. So, soon here in this fractured land, we may yet hear “play ball!” A little ray of sunshine to help dismiss the pall, With so much that divides us maybe baseball is the salve To bind up those who don’t have much to those of us who have. Casey cannot save us now; remember, he struck out, It’s up to us to save the day, of that there is no doubt. Find a local hangout when the game’s about to start, Buy your friend a round or two, but sit six feet apart, Wear your mask like Fauci; the good doctor likes the Nats, And just be glad there’s someone, finally someone, at the bat. Click here to view the article