March is the month where on TV
Are a bunch of teenage guys
Who compete to hold onto their balls
With other men of unusual size.
The best at making balls go swish
Will win. Others suffer sadness,
And that is why they call this event
By the appropriate name, March Madness.
Filed under Poems
There once were some Illinois Bears
Who played the ex-redskins by O’hare.
They punted and punted
And punted and punted
And who the heck actually cares?
Filed under Poems
Today I watched a once great team
Catch on fire, but die as steam,
Lead on offense by a bust
Who makes us say “In Smith We Trust.”
On the flip side now I know
How Michael Jackson puts on a show.
Do we suck? Yeah, probably!
But I still love the hawks, so whee!
Filed under Poems
If I had a billion dollars
I’d buy a sports franchise
And make a special policy
To only hire guys
With super inappropriate surnames
Like Hitler, Kuntz, White-Powers,
And listen to the commentators
Say their names for hours…
Filed under Poems
When my team is 8 and 6
And my fantasy QB gets sick
You’re the RB1 I start
And throw to when the ground is slick.
You’re the treadmill at the gym
In front of the TV
Where I can watch the Yankees lose
With nobody in front of me.
You’re someone I never thought
Was real, but here you are!
Like a white guy who hates frisbee sports
And never tried to learn guitar.
When I hold your hand I feel
Like I am good at math,
And if you asked me nicely
I might even take a bath.
I think you’re pretty naked
Or in a muumuu, though
I doubt there is a clothing item
That could dull your glow.
I would window shop with you
On our anniversary,
And when you sleep, on the toilet’s edge
I aim so you don’t hear me pee.
You smell like guacamole
And when you hold me tight
I forget to pull my belly in
And I know the world’s alright.
Filed under Poems
If I were a professional athlete
Who married a supermodel
And knew my progeny’s eventual genes
Would be cranking out talent full-throttle
I think I would name my son “Daddy”
Just to see the look on some faces
Whenever my son is revealed as the one
Who wins all the games and the races.
“Oh yes, Daddy’s enormous”
All the commentators would say
“And Daddy’s been known to dominate
“Everybody who stands in his way.”
Let’s say Daddy learned to play hockey…
I think that would sound pretty slick:
“Daddy comes quickly towards the goal!
“I love how he handles his stick!”
Daddy could master the breast stroke,
Or hook up with a tight end,
Dribble his ball for a lay-in
Or illegally use his hands “to defend.”
Yes, my athletic son Daddy
Would make even golf fun to watch…
But alas, God made me a poet
And no athlete shall be conceived by my crotch.
Filed under Poems
The people writing the baseball rulebook
Really wrote down things like:
“When you throw a ball and it isn’t a ball
But it doesn’t get hit it’s a strike.”
But the people who wrote the tennis book
Just smiled, or so says the lore,
When they revealed their brand new way
To calculate the score.
Filed under Poems
Back when I was an athlete
In high school, I was late
To almost every practice
Which didn’t turn out great.
Coach made me do pushups,
Which would normally be fair
Except my father was the coach
And he’s the one who drove me there.
Filed under Poems
Honestly, the most American sport
That no one’s thought of yet
Would have to be drunk NASCAR
(Or its equivalent)
Where the racers have to drink
A bunch if whiskey sours
Until they cannot walk, and then
Turn left for several hours.
It’s a last-man-standing race
That proves, HD and live,
That it is not a good idea
For one to drink and drive,
And yet some kids will spend their lives
Trying to be a pro.
Years later, in Utopia,
We’ll ask, “Where’d the dummies go?”
Filed under Poems
If marriage were like football
There would be no single men.
Every year they’d scout for wives
And draft a girl or ten
Then sign them to a contract
For a couple wondrous years
And give them shirts with numbers
And use them to sell beers.
We’d all have favorite teams of wives
Like the Ashleys or the Sophies
Who live in different cities
And try to win us trophies,
And when the best turn 40
(Or sometimes just 34)
We’d trade them off to other teams
And draft a dozen more.
If marriage were like football
Maybe life would be ok,
But instead it seems to be more like
The WNBA.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 