FROST FOR A DAY (JACK EATON, BEWARE!)
The dog days of summer have arrived, and how.
We’d like to challenge the heat, but not today, not now.
Memphis sports creep along like sand through time,
Not much in the way of news, so come on . . . let’s rhyme.
The Griz say Banks, no wait, we like Bell.
Another point guard in The Pyramid? Jerry, do tell.
Tennessee has the lottery, Senator Cohen . . . he won.
But oh, for the ball that could have landed us LeBron.
A new Redbirds era began with a coach called Sporty.
His players were less “Grease,” more like “Get Shorty.”
The losses multiplied, wins you can’t pay for.
The only solution, said the Cardinals, is a guy named Sheaffer.
Need a baseball story with some Hart and some style?
When Bo left for St. Louis, he left with a smile.
Fifteen for thirty? You’ve got to be kidding.
The rookie gave the veterans their lessons in hitting.
Speaking of the Cardinals, what of their pitching?
So many trouble spots, LaRussa’s been itching.
How many games can be saved by Fassero?
There’s no Cy Young awaiting Kiko Calero.
Ah, but the Cubs stole the spotlight when Sammy’s bat broke.
Enough cork in that wood to make a Redbird choke.
“My bad,” said Sammy, let’s forgive and forget.
Imagine if such a cry came from a Yankee or Met!
How about Clemens, two milestones . . . one night.
He shut the ‘Birds down, nary a Cardinal in flight.
When the Rocket finds Cooperstown, which cap will he wear?
In Gotham it may not matter, but in Beantown . . . they care.
Where was Tiger when the pros came to town?
Once again much too busy, turning more money down.
David Toms won his title as Mr. Nike took a pass.
The FESJC may miss Woods, but it doesn’t miss class.
Turning to NASCAR, Kenseth has first place.
But would you know this guy if he happened to kiss your face?
Where’s Gordon, where’s Junior, where’s Stewart, where’s Rusty?
Their rides come up short, while mine just gets dusty.
How about Penny in that cap and gown?
He surprised us again . . . this remains his hoop town.
Earl Barron marched through The Pyramid as well,
Never taller, not once, when he played for Coach Cal.
July’s a month for biking, both near and far.
Lance Armstrong’s the man, best thing on wheels since the car.
When cancer attacked, he battled, fought . . . stepped forth,
He won the Tour de France, then a second, third, and fourth.
Back to baseball, the All-Star game you say?
Hideki and Ichiro came a long, long way to play.
No Clemens, no Maddux, no Johnson, no Schilling.
The pitching will be handled by a coalition of the willing.
Bye-bye Big East, said the Hurricanes of Miami,
Hello ACC . . . those ‘Noles will make your palms clammy.
And what of our Tigers? Mid-major at best.
Conference USA, alas, is too weak a test.
Thank heavens our games didn’t distract the Bard,
Though had he been a ballplayer, he’d surely have been a Card.
This poetry stuff can be rough, somewhat scary,
Next week it’s back to prose, back to — ho hum — commentary.
