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For Karin—
Every year with you,
A world championship;

Easy





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October, 2009: Bruce Bochy


Boche,
With a head the size of a thirty-dollar pumpkin,
The brain mass should be as impressive,
Shouldn’t it?

But,
You shuffle in place at the side of the dugout,
A hand on the railing,
Staring out at the goings on.

The look is either:

A tourist dumped onto
Castro Street,
Brow crinkled,
Trying not to stare at the natives,
Wondering which way is Fisherman’s Wharf,
Fingering his wallet, his Best Western key;

Or,

A guy in line at Wells Fargo,
Rubbing a deposit slip and check,
Scanning the employees, their proclivities, their maturity,
The timing of deliveries,
Figuring out the cameras and alarms,
Giving the guards a nonchalant glance,
All the while,
Concocting a monster heist.

Which, Boche, is it?





Jon Miller, Hall Of Famer



Your humor dryer,
Than a summer Scottsdale parking lot;
Your timing equal,
To James Brown’s;
Your knowledge profound,
Wide and generous;
Your descriptions vivid;
Your mimicking of Vin—
Ah, perfect moment after perfect moment.

You’re the only announcer,
To whom I stay tuned,
In a rain delay.

With Stanford sidekick David B. Flemming:
Tonto/Sancho Panza/Chico Marx/Dr. Watson/
Mr. Spock/Chewbacca;
Aristotle,
Contemplating Plato’s freshest utterance.

Miller, you gotta quit ESPN,
Sending you hither and yon,
Every week,
Away from the story by the Bay.

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