THE WORLD OF MAN AND SPORTS = By Tom Zart

TOM ZART’S 300 POEMS


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BASEBALL


A game called prison ball was enjoyed in France,
while English boys played rounder in short pants.
Town ball was the game that Americans played,
While friends and family watched from the shade.

American baseball became alive,
With Cartwright's rules of 1845.
Civil War soldiers played be behind the lines,
To help pass time and soothe troubled minds.

Professional baseball got its start,
When the National League performed its part.
Soon after fans would pay to see the games
As the players traveled by boats and trains.

From April to October, players play.
Half the time at home and half away.
By thirty, it's time for most to retire,
Before they're consumed by game time desire.



FOOTBALL


The stands are full of eager fans
Who say, we're paid too much money!
But if they would put our suits on,
They'd find football isn't funny.

Twenty-two men and five referees
Chasing a pigskin, air filled ball.
Mashing and bashing all the way,
Till the striped shirts whistle their call.

All the generals on the sideline
Are waging their athletic war.
And the letters in the words they use,
Never amount to more than four.

There's no substitute for winning
And no excuse for losing.
Though after games; when we can't sleep,
It's because of all the bruising.


BOXERS, PAST & PRESENT


The Greek and Roman athletes
Wore studs of iron on each hand;
Beating and clawing each other,
Like two tigers on the sand.

The English called it boxing first,
To pound someone with your fist.
Mostly it was done for money
But sometimes by those just pissed.

Matches of the bare-knuckle days
Lasted fifty rounds or more,
'Till one man's towel would be thrown in
As he lay upon the floor.

Boxers now use soft leather gloves,
With their hands wrapped in cotton,
Wearing a mouthpiece for teeth and lips;
They fight like those forgotten.



BESIDES LOVE MEN NEED FISHING


Besides love men need fishing,
And for both, most are wishing,
Catching trophies chosen best,
To be envied by the rest.

Fishing is a game of sport
Loved by all, both tall and short.
We must fool the fish’s eye,
If we plan to stir and fry,

Some use boats while others wade,
As they fish the sun or shade.
Ice-cold drinks help pass the day,
While life’s troubles fade away.

Most men feel they've everything,
With their rod, hook, cork and string.
Be it river, pond or lake,
We all pray our line won't break.



GOLF


Many games were played with a stick and ball
As far back as the early days of man,
Till the 14th century, golfers teed off
At St. Andrews, Scotland with clubs in hand.

Today men and women both play golf,
As a group or just one or two.
Players, rich, poor, pro, or in between
Practice their swing with clubs, old and new.

They don't go thirsty cause they bring their own,
Whatever it takes to enjoy the day.
Sometimes they play several games at once
As they win money or give it away.

There's nothing better than a green golf course
With the sweet scent of spring in the air.
To escape the drudgery of the workplace,
Where you can laugh, joke, brag, gamble and swear


RODEO RIDER


From dawn to dusk my horse breathes flames,
I'm a rodeo rider with no time for games.
I ride and I fly as I hang on to hair,
Ramming my spurs in the sides of a mare.

Every bone in my body feels some sort of pain,
No wonder the normal call me insane.
I’ll drink cold beer and smoke a skinny,
And in between paydays, I'll spend every penny.

So give me my horse and get out of the way,
As I ride off to glory, till my dieing day.
Waving my Stetson, as the crowd cheers me on,
How soon they’ll forget after I'm gone.


PUMPING IRON


Except for love, there's nothing beats a good workout,
Pumping iron with dumbbells or a bench press bar.
You're muscles grow tight as you begin to swell,
And those who like firmness want to know who you are.

From 16 to 60 you can still look good,
Though they'll be some who will point, laugh, and make fun.
Pay no attention to whatever they say,
For jokes on them, when they're naked in the sun.

History's Sampson, the biblical strong man,
Was blessed with the strength of no other.
A modern man who pumps iron and gives it his all,
Before he knows it, could pass for his brother.

So put aside the pop, beer, hotdogs and chips,
And pump earth's iron for the rest of your life,
Soon you’ll discover the best of yourself
And always have someone for a girlfriend or wife.



WHEREVER THE BIG FISH BITE


When I was young and before girls
I loved to go fish the river.
Creeks and ponds where alright to
Anywhere that would deliver.

Fingerlings four to five inches long
Are what trophies love to feast on.
Trout line or pole made no difference
Bate up and the fight was on.

Sometimes I would strike a fire
To help keep warm in the night.
Spring, summer, fall, I was eager to go
Wherever the big ones bite.


RIVER FISHING


After school my friend and I would walk through town to the river
Soon to bait our trout lines with cotton cake, crawdads and liver.
Sometimes we used baby bullheads, perch or great big frogs
Tossing out into the current next to a snag of logs.

At times we would disrobe and wade out in the stream
Attaching lines to anything hoping to hook our dream.
One day I made some doe bait and stuffed it in my sock
Attached five hooks, hundred pound line and tied it to a rock.

When I bragged to my classmates they snickered and called me fool
Till the next day they followed me to the river after school.
I made my way to the water my path was a fallen tree
Something big was on my line it was easy for us to see.

I tried to pull it in but the current was too strong
Three boys ran to assist me as we began to sing a song.
Going fishing instead of wishing for the granddaddy of them all
If we land this monster will give the sport shows a call.

It seemed like forever before our beast was ashore
Eighty-five pounds of flathead cat as big as a closet door.
We shared his steaks at a fish fry, food for heart and soul
Took his head and nailed it high for all to see on a pole.

For a time we ceased our casting instead we chased the girls
After marriage with our kids we again fished the swirls.
Too many of my friends have past and the years have raced by
Though here I sit with rod in hand a fisherman till I die.

All Poems By
Tom Zart
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