On Randy Winn’s troubles with names

The thing about a new team that really makes me sweat

Is learning all my teammates’ names so I won’t forget.

There’s Freddy, Arthur, Carlos, Chris, Greg and Gil and Ben,

Then that guy I get mixed up–Kelly? maybe Ken?

There’s Julio and Rafael, Steve, Luis, and Rett,

There’s Edgar, Mike and Mark and Matt, and the funny Bret.

Ryan, Aaron, Ryan, Aaron, Ryan, Willie, Dan,

Shigetoshi, Kazuhiro, Ichiro–Japan!

Joel and J.J., John and John, Jamie and Jamal,

Just Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are left. There, I think that’s all!

On the Astros’ infield

The well-designed Astro, Geoff Blum,

Shouldn’t make Houston fans glum,

But Julio Lugo?

Worth less than a Yugo:

His engine just lacks a good hum.

If Astros fans watching Jeff Kent

See a throwing arm erringly bent

Forcing Jeff Bagwell

To have to tag well,

They’ll wonder where Biggio went.

After the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster

Our mission: to explore the perfect swing,

The easy uppercut, the solid sound,

The bat directed smoothly to the ground,

The skyward peek to see what’s taking wing.

The ball is launched, and soon our eyes project

The missile’s life ahead, its quick ascent,

Its long, lingering peak, the slow descent

From grand success to accomplished respect.

But suddenly, an unexpected hand

Just reaches up and catches us off guard,

Abruptly snatching down our visions, hard:

Our dreams don’t always end the way we planned.

We rage at being victims of deceit,

Misled by expectations; this foul theft

Aborts our lofty dreams, and all that’s left

Is the unbearable arc, incomplete.