The Premier Baseball Social Network for Players, Coaches, Scouts, and Umpires
There’s a cursed sound across this land,
a cursed sound held in the hands,
by young and old who play this game,
by young and old who forsake its name.
A sound that insults the grass,
the baselines, fields, bleachers and stands.
A sound that is shallow and weak of spirt,
a sound that’s hollow by those that use it.
DINK... of metal, not wood is due,
imposter to the art of swat we knew.
Imposter to the art of bunt and hit,
imposter to spikes and even mitt.
Of all that lives in this game,
wether amateur or pro of fame.
It’s a ball, glove and forever grass,
with a wooden bats that gives us class.
Its golden grain, its tapered neck,
its bulging sweet spot that demands respect.
But not just anyone can swing this jewel,
this length of wood that makes men into fools.
No, it takes practice to use this right,
wether under sun or under lights.
No forgiving surface of metal and paint,
or fancy name can help even a saint.
You must be true to your craft today
if swinging wood, not metal grey.
So make it easy on yourself and say,
DINK .. is the sound we’ll hear all day.
By those who will never know, and never say.
This game is a craft that takes time to learn,
to practice and hone, and skills to yearn.
An apprentice of this skillful art,
of swinging wood - that sets you apart.
And those that’ll use the metal shaft,
of aluminum, composites, with little class.
You’ll never really feel the “bees”,
or that certain way to move your knees.
To drive that hip to the ball,
with wood in your hands and feel it all.
And let’s not forget that sound of “wack”,
of Ruth and Aaron who took their hacks.
Yes wood my son, is the truest art,
that compliments and makes us smart.
Our use and feel of this tool,
that’ll make us heros or make us fools.
Say no to the DINK... on any field,
of our journey from childhood as we shoulder and wheel.
With trademarks embossed and held just right,
one of the truest truths, that we hold so tight.