Raj Oza
"PLAY BALL!"
"PLAY BALL!"

A Cooperstown-bound, Dirt-rich Poet

Upon arriving to Chicago’s welcoming South Side,
Dick Allen had absolutely nothing to hide.
Looking at the past through his aviator glasses,
He surely experienced Philly fans as braying jackasses.

The City of Brotherly Love showered Dick with hate,
Even when he slammed majestic shots from home plate.
So, the brother began his first-base dirt scribbling,
A pointed response to the fans’ ugly spittle dribbling.

With a creative cleated toe,
In the infield he wrote “COKE.”
Then he hit a booming homer
Over the Coke sign . . . way over.

In the dirt, Dick kept on writing;
Maybe it was his way of fighting.
“STOP.” “WHY.” “GONE.” “BOO.”
He wanted to be gone by “OCT 2.”

Bowie Kuhn cried, “Stop!” from his imperial tower;
Like Charles Dickens, Dick Allen spoke truth to power.
The minimalist first-baseman-poet
Did not the commissioner’s line toe it.

To Kuhn’s hapless order, Dick responded with his big toe:
In the manicured dirt around first, he defiantly scratched, “NO.”
Philadelphia’s press kept calling him the boy-like “Richie,”
Even though as a grown man he insisted it really pinched him.

After stops in St. Louis and L.A.,
To Chicago, Mr. Allen found his way.
With Bill Veeck and Chuck Tanner’s less hostile White Sox,
MVP Dick Allen stepped out of racism’s confining black box.

In the Zone, the Giants Zone

Pitchers hit every corner,
Even ancient Verlander.

Fielders get a jump on the ball;
Is Devers gloving his way to the Hall?

Catchers nail the speedy runner;
Hey Bailey, can this be any funner?

Hitters love every umpire’s call;
Will Adames hit into Classic Fall?

With Captain Yaz traded away (sniff, sniff),
Chapman leads by example, playing “What if?”

Managers tell players they’re in the zone of Giants;
Melvin’s “Humm Babies” are a winning alliance.

Waxing Confidence, Waning Condolence

The quotes in the poem are from Arthur Ashe’s memoir, Days of Grace, co-authored by Arnold Rampersad.

While the Brewers were winning over a dozen in a row,
The Giants found themselves eating fetid dead crow.

Days after Milwaukee hammered Paul Skenes,
San Francisco meekly lost fourteen of fifteen.

As Wisconsin’s George Webb fed each fan a free burger,
NorCal fans lost appetite for baseball’s sweet fervor.

The Brew Crew’s confidence grew like a waxing moon.
With condolences, the Gigantes’ season waned too soon.

Tennis great Arthur Ashe brilliantly said,
In sports and in life, it’s all in your head.

Playoff-bound teams who remain in the chase
May find inspiration in Ashe’s Days of Grace.

“Momentary lapses of confidence . . . often prove disastrous.”
So do what it takes . . . get angry, stay focused, feel free to cuss!

“A few falling pebbles build into an avalanche.”
Just hit that ball with a bat lathed from a branch.

“Soon, victory is utterly out of one’s reach.”
Self-belief is a law one must never ever breach.

“One simply must not despair, even for a moment.”
For momentum is an elixir, powerful and potent.

The Green Monster’s Natural Selection

Requiring a shortstop’s depth and range,
Baseball is a game of
Continuity and change.

Long a Fenway season-ticket holder,
Stephen Jay Gould studied
Dinosaurs and Darwin’s folder.

Ever the literary evolutionary biologist,
He opined, that to thrive, baseball,
Like Homo sapiens, must not be a dodo dogmatist.

Born in New York City, Stevie rooted for Joltin’ Joe.
After moving to Harvard Yard,
The Professor evolved to applauding El Grande Pedro.

He was the Goulds’ six-year-old son
When Jackie broke the color barrier and
Punctuated baseball’s equilibrium.

What a year 1947 must have been,
When owner Tom Yawkey declared,
Paint that wall Monster Green.

Imagine a green screen that features
The Kid, Yaz, and Jim Ed Rice:
All splendid Cooperstown creatures.

Their heritage differs from that of each other and Gould,
Yet all four share a DNA of greatness.
The Green Monster’s natural selection can never be fooled.

Nurturing an undying sporting community,
Our national pastime narrates
Change and continuity.

Dr. Oza’s novel, Double Play on the Red Line, is available for pre-ordering. Cubs fans will agree that Wrigley Field is a far better setting than Fenway Park.

Fictional Ernie, True Ryno

You know Ryno covers
A lot of ground and
Plays the game the way
It’s supposed to be played:

He knows how to turn a DP;
He lays down a sweet sacrifice bunt;
He hits for a solid average and with power;
And he respects the old-timers.

Mark my word,
That young fella
Is going to the
Hall of Fame.

This poem adds line breaks to a reflection by Ernie, a character in Dr. Oza’s upcoming novel, Double Play on the Red Line.

Love Kurtz When You’re Away

A’s rookie Kurtz went six for six,
And baseball fans scored a Nick fix.
His four home runs made for a glorious night;
To behold history-making was a memorable sight.

When the kid hit Home-Run-One,
I recalled the team’s Philly origin.
Memory’s ball flew east back to 1901-1954,
With Connie Mack’s Hall of Famers galore.

After the kid slammed Home-Run-Two,
I recalled KC grooming a leadership crew.
Memory’s ball moved Midwest back to 1955-1967,
Whitey, Tony*, Tommy, Dick 1 & 2 now in managerial heaven.

After the kid clobbered Home-Run-Three,
I recalled Oakland names which were poetry.
Memory’s ball flew west back to 1968-2024,
Blue Moon, Catfish, Campy, Rollie, Vida and Mr. October.

After the kid crashed Home-Run-Four,
I couldn’t recall anything anymore.
Memory’s ball flew away, a wild pitch in 2025.
Sacramento to Vegas, the A’s barely alive.

Although young Nick collected 19 total bases,
His team is one of MLB’s sad sack homeless cases.
Like America’s forgotten underhoused population,
The nomadic Athletics don’t have a home in this nation.

*Whitey Herzog, Tony LaRussa, Tommy Lasorda, Dick Howser, and Dick Williams were all former Kansas City Athletics players and future World Series managers. Only LaRussa is still living.

All-Stars and Moon Shadows

“That’s one small step for [a] man. . .”

On July 21, 1969, under the light of the moon,
I looked to the sky in the shadow of Apollo’s men.

It was a balmy, childhood summer night.
Up above, NASA fielded three astronaut All-Stars:
Aldrin, Armstrong and Collins.
Two touched the lunar surface; one stayed back to pilot.

Just days later, in RFK Memorial Stadium,
The Cubs bettered NASA’s trio by a couple All-Stars:
Banks, Beckert, Hundley, Kessinger and Santo.
Two started between second and third, three on the bench.

Memory has crater-sized holes in my infield of dreams.
Around the horn were Cubbies I’ve immortalized in fiction:
Ernie watched Randy throw the ball to Ron,
Then to Glenn, onward to Don, and finally back to the pitcher.

Had all of Wrigley Field’s fan favorites
Made it to RFK via a Mayor-Daley-style stuffed ballot box,
Outfielders Billy and Jim would’ve joined the constellation,
And the NL manager would’ve started Fergie on the mound.

It was professional baseball’s centennial.
Players, coaches and managers selected July’s stars;
Richard Nixon and Bowie Kuhn leeched off their glory.
The following year, once again fans would vote for their heroes.

In 1970, I held a perforated MLB ballot up to the Chicago sky.
The punched-out holes looked like stars, all stars.

“. . .one giant [Santo-esque click-of-the-heels] leap for [Cubs]kind.”

Here’s the “starting lineup” of characters in Dr. Oza’s novel Double Play on the Red Line: Donna, Glenn, Billy, Ron, Ernie, Dr. Randi, Gentleman Jim, A. G. Donald, and Judge Ferguson. It will be published later this year by Third World Press.

Robots in Blue Spoil (Im)Perfection

I prefer BI to AI:
Baseball Intelligence is field-earned;
Artificial Intelligence is machine-learned.
Even an abacus can count to twenty-seven,
But only humans can feel thisclose to perfection.

C’mon now, where’s the charm
In Hawk-Eye’s robotic arm
Calling balls and strikes?

Gimme Bruce Froemming
Blowing Milt Pappas’ fling
With a perfect game.

It was 1972:
Behind home plate was Froemming in blue.

The modern era’s version of pitcher heaven
Had only witnessed such hurlers seven:

Cy Young, Addie Jones and Charlie Robertson;
Don Larsen was a perfect World Series top gun;
Jim Bunning, Sandy Koufax and Catfish Hunter.
Pappas would have been number eight, but for Froemming’s blunder.

Top of the ninth. Yo!
Only three outs to go.

A line drive to left. One out.
A grounder to short. Two out.

The count went to three and two.
Immortality needed one strike more.
Instead, Froemming called, “Ball four.”

Along with a few choice words (too blue to print here)
Pappas might’ve said, “A robot woulda’ got it right.”
But baseball aficionados know, it ain’t so black and white.

Why is perfection so rare?
Because each human actor
Plays a crucial factor
In twenty-seven up
And twenty-seven down.