Saturday, August 28, 2010

Negro Leagues: New Postage Stamp Series Unveiled


"Almost all of them are gone now, fading memories kept alive through grainy photos and dog-eared newspaper clippings their children and grandchildren keep near. But now the black baseball players and their contributions to the culture and history of a country that once shunned them are being honored. The U.S. Postal Service released a set of stamps Thursday honoring early Negro Leagues players."
Books on Baseball, Kansas City

Tony Gloeggler - "Shagging Flies"

The last hour of light
slips behind the backstop.
My father stands at home plate.
I trot to the outfield,
stand with my legs spread
shoulder length apart.
Bent slightly at the waist,
I place my hands on my knees,
lean my weight forward
and wait for him to toss
the ball up, swing the bat.
Hit. The sound sings
in my skin. I take
that first cross-over
step, get my legs
in gear, track the ball
down. I catch it,
cradle it in the web,
peg it back on one hop.
Hit. The Mick sprints
to the base of the monuments,
makes a backhand stab,
pulls up with a limp.
Hit. Hit. Yaz turns
his back to the plate,
watches the line drive
dent the Green Monster.
He whirls, unfurls
a perfect strike
to second base, gets
the runner sliding in.
Hit. Hit. Ellen Springer's
seventh grade mouth
drifts down from heaven,
kisses my lips, slow
dances with my tongue.
Hit. Hit. Hit. I catch
my breath, lick sweat
off my upper lip. Hit.
Hit. Clemente charges
a hard hit single,
picks it up thigh high,
fires it home on a fly.
Hit. Aaron lopes back
to the warning track,
feels for the fence,
braces himself, leaps
and snatches the ball
out of a fan's hands.
Hit. A shooting star
falls, lands in my mitt.
I fling it back with all
my might, watch it grow
wings, fly and splash
the twilight with bright
white light. Hit. Hit. Willie
glides after a broken bat
blooper, loses his hat
to Candlestick winds,
catches the ball in his basket
and races my father home.

Manly Johnson - "On the Avenue"

The boy in the field
was catching flies.

He wanted a fungo bat
with his name burned in
to knock the ball into the air
and catch it himself before it fell.

That was more difficult
than seeing his face
in profile.

He wanted to pitch the ball
and hit his own slider
over the fence.

He would collect a little sweat
from his cap and grip the ball
with thumb and two fingers.

He would lean back
lift a foot higher than his head
swing the arm through
and let go with a wrist snap.

As the spinning spheroid cut
the corner of the plate
his bat would meet it
with a solid crack.

That was harder than flying
off the garage roof.

He would like to be the umpire
calling himself safe at home
as he slid in a tick ahead
of the ball.

He would snag his own line drive
over third with a backhand stab
and catch himself off first.

He wants a glove and a bat
he wants a ball
and cleats.

He wants to give himself
these things.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Ron Santo


Wikipedia - "Ronald Edward Santo (born February 25, 1940 in Seattle, Washington) is a former professional baseball player. He played the majority of his Major League Baseball career as the regular third baseman for the Chicago Cubs before playing his final year with the Chicago White Sox. Santo was a productive player despite suffering from diabetes, a condition which he carefully concealed for 80% of his career; it eventually necessitated the amputation of both of his legs."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference, YouTube

Craig Paulenich - "For the Game"

I Prometheus in Foul Ground

The World has regained its orbit,
the spiral tightened.
Persephone emerges in right field,
shading her eyes.
The lineup of holy seasons past
remains unbroken.
The gods are remembered,
gloves restrung.
They cross the on-deck circle,
Osiris and Shoeless Joe,
Pete Gray and Mordecai Brown,
Gil Hodges and Gilgamesh.
The vultures of winter
are driven away.
My new heart is
the size of a baseball.



II Playing Ball

Comiskey
Sportsman's Park
Crosley
Ebbets
Forbes

Westinghouse
Five Points
New Virginia
Hogback
Frogtown Road

Finger the bat neck
like a rosary. It will
raise blisters like roses.
Oil the glove. This cowhide
is not dead. See it
drink, grow supple
and dark?

This is my first season without my father.
The diamond seems more oblique, askew,
the game quieter, the space
between second and third
more crowded, claustrophobic.
The infield is slower, grass taller.
The pitches break in on my wrists,
there isn't time enough
to bring the bat head around.

And so we sacrifice,
moving others up,
bringing them home.
It is, after all, the game which matters.
These small martyrdoms kill the self,
bind us with the dead who have
raised dust on these base paths.

Sarah Freligh - "Minor League"

Al lives with five other guys
and orange shag carpeting
(the color of insanity, Al has heard),
a hole in the living room
wall weeping plaster where
Boonie put his fist through
trying to prove how tough he was
to a girl he picked up at the pool.

Stu, the handyman, comes to fix it, bringing
his complaints: so much rain, so hard
on the missus, her arthritis. Where's
the old Florida, he wants to know—
flamingoes, blue sky, oranges, sun—
snow last winter, can you beat that?
Should have seen all those rich orange
growers up in Orlando watching the sky
like they were waiting for a favor from God.

Boonie cast his hand in masking
tape that everyone wrote on
with a felt-tipped pen. No brain,
no pain, Al put, signed his name,
finishing the "l" in a happy face.
Practicing.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Carl Hubbell


Wikipedia - "Carl Owen Hubbell (June 22, 1903 – November 21, 1988) was an American baseball player. He was a member of the New York Giants in the National League from 1928 to 1943."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference

Thomas Guarnera - "Searching For Ballata"

(A Shaggy Dog Poem)

Some words unnerve like people do,
confusing with their promise.
Your sudden visit, from the blue,
brings to mind a case in point:
that shifty word, ballata.

Is it the new "forbidden dance"?
A folk song from the Renaissance?
An ancient form of martial art?
A secret left-wing movement?
("My comrades in the ballata,
tonight we liberate Minsk!")
Perhaps it is a native grain?
A kind of prehistoric fish?
Or just some gutter expletive?
("You son of a ballata!")

Then I learned, in World War II
rubber had become so scarce,
they tried a gummy substitute
to fill the core of baseballs.
It had the name ballata.
But when a bat touched these balls,
their sole trajectory was down.
They didn't bounce; they hugged the ground.
Two strikes and ballata was out.

Which takes my rambling thoughts to you--
so casual, just passing through.
It seems, how long, a hundred years
since last I saw you in the flesh.
Your rose has given up some bloom;
my plant stays firmly potted.
Yet though it's bottom of our ninth,
I hear the National Anthem.
My ump cries out Play ball!


Each time I sidle to the plate,
you stare me down from the mound.
What you pitch, I still can't touch.
Your infinite variety
of curves and biting sliders,
they tie me up inside.
And then, my final turn at bat
(Bronx cheers raining from the crowd;
redemption one good poke away),
my mind wanders from the game.
The ball, the bat, a cloudless sky.
See the fences disappearÿ
the players float like balloonsÿ
the fans peel off all their clothes
and throw them as confetti.
Everything is possible
save for hitting that damn ball.
Strike three called, while I dream.
Baseball is a subtle game;
less subtle, by half, than freedom.
You taught me love in absence.
Even more, in defiance
of simple cause and effect...
of history and tendency...
of box scores and their tabled truth.
At times I'm almost grateful,
if gratitude could show its face
below the Mendoza Line.

For you, nostalgia has its charm;
for me, I live in present tense.
I need new words to close the loop,
to make sense as you vanish.

So, remember this when we part:
You've been, you are, you always will
be the ballata of my heart.

Phil Rizzuto - "From Slumber I Heard the Men At Work"

I.

Friday.
When I was forced
To leave the game after six innings, You know,
I almost came back in the 13th inning
Moore.
I want you to know I was thinking
Of Murcer and Seaver there.

II.

I woke up
and it was like,
Like a nightmare.
I said, "Could the game still be going on?"
And sure enough.
I started to get dressed.
And then the 14th inning came.
If it had gone another inning,
I'd have been there.


August 30, 1992
New York at Minnesota
Russ Springer pitching to Chili Davis
Sixth inning, two outs, bases empty
Twins lead 5-1

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Shot Heard 'round the World


Wikipedia - "In baseball, the 'Shot Heard 'round the World' is the term given to the game-ending home run hit by New York Giants outfielder Bobby Thomson off Brooklyn Dodgers pitcher Ralph Branca at the Polo Grounds to win the National League pennant at 3:58 p.m. EST on October 3, 1951. As a result of the 'shot' (baseball slang for 'home run' or any hard-hit ball), the Giants won the game 5–4, defeating the Dodgers in their pennant playoff series, two games to one."
Wikipedia, YouTube - Shot Heard 'round the World, Video - Bobby Thomson Dies At Age 86, NYT - Bobby Thomson Dies at 86; Hit Epic Home Run, W - "Pafko at the Wall", Don DeLillo

Craig Paulenich - "Strange Loops"

"Beisbol has been berry, berry good to me."
— attributed to Saturnino Orestes Armas Miñoso

Me too.

Fireflied evenings,
the lawn mower's roar still
tingling the fingers,

we'd tune in
"Cleveland Indians Baseball,
brought to you by
Carling Black Label."

"Yoo-Hoo! Mabel! Black Label."

And from Cleveland, far across
the corn, smoking and chugging,
from the Mistake on the Lake,
anachronistically beautiful,
came baseball.

And we listened,
my father drinking pony bottles
of Black Label,
"dead soldiers" he would call them
when I was twenty and
working in the mill, pouring steel
in the sweltering days and still evenings.

When I came home
we would build a small fire
and catch a game from the coast.
But now, I am eleven and
my small glass is filled only once.

Barbara M. Seagle - "Radio Game"

There is a song of crickets
beneath the rolling swell
of the crowd.
The evening sky opens,
spilling darkness
over the porch.
Light and avid finches
withdraw; I am alone
with the rumbling
of the night game.

Far from the city,
the lineups, the anthem
emerge from clack and static.
All the big plays, I know,
will be transformed
to frenzied obscurities.
The twitch of forearms,
the burn exchanged
by opposing eyes,
the forward-leaning longing
of the howling crowd
are all present and I, too,
lean into the night.

At the turn of fall,
the season's
hoard depleted,
I take my place
in a home uniform.
Light sways all around me
with an eager green.
On the hilltop porch,
the breeze turns cool.
There are broken
cheers from the crowd
as a bright sphere
shoots into the night sky.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Lou Brock


Wikipedia - "Louis Clark 'Lou' Brock (born June 18, 1939) is an American former player in Major League Baseball. Brock was a left fielder who played his career with the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals. He batted and threw left-handed. He is currently a special instructor coach for the St. Louis Cardinals."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference, YouTube

David Moseder - "You Could Look It Up (Ode to the '62 Mets)"

Spring '62 was a season of wonder
Casting a spell I still find myself under;
Something profound I could not then define
Struck me as Dad changed the channel to Nine.
Baseball it was, with a strange added magic
Blurring the line between comic and tragic.
Bad as it was it was good as it gets —
I fell in love with new New York Mets.

Nelson and Kiner and Murph called each play
("Drake throws it wide…and it's dropped by Bouchee!")
Painting the word picture, colorful, snappy,
Ending with recaps most often not happy.
(Paying to broadcast the team's odd beginnings,
Rheingold and Viceroys were sold between innings.)

Bringing new life to the old Polo Grounds,
Cheered by a fandom whose hope knew no bounds,
Time after time this team broke chance's laws,
Snatching defeat out of victory's jaws.
Games came undone like a battered ball's stitching;
Folly prevailed, leading off with the pitching:

Many a fat, hanging curveball was tossed,
Only MacKenzie won more than he lost;
Jackson dropped twenty and Craig twenty-four,
Anderson piled on seventeen more.
Hook was no better, no worse, but he found
History waiting for him on the mound:
After the Mets' first nine games, with none won,
He hooked the Bucs: New York 9, Pittsburgh 1.

Many who followed seemed merely spare parts:
Hunter was shot down in all his six starts;
Winless were Roadblock and Vinegar Bend
As their careers stalled and rolled to an end;
Cisco showed promise, one win, one defeat;
Once-great Labine should have stayed in St. Pete;
Moorhead pitched more games than most, all for nil;
Hillman's last days on the mound went downhill;
Brief were the tenures of Moford and Foss,
Just long enough to each rack up a loss.

Two Robert Millers shared time in Mets hell:
Lefty Bob G and righthander Bob L.
G split four Ds but would quickly depart;
L's only win was his twenty-first start.
(L would move on to earn World Series gold,
Then, at the end, would rejoin the Mets' fold.)

Daviault's only career victory came
July the seventh — my first big league game.
Taylor caught both games that day and was strong,
Homering twice; he'd hit three all year long.

Six other catchers would share backstop time,
Two not quite ready and four past their prime.
Choo Choo could fly, but his bat was deplorable;
Young Cannizzaro would prove more endurable.
Ginsberg caught twice, then was put on the shelf;
Chiti was traded for none but himself.
Piggy's career on the season's last day
Came to an end with one swing: triple play!
Landrith a niche in Mets annals would carve:
First to be drafted — then traded for Marv.

Marvelous Marv (whose pinch homer, sky high,
Won that aforementioned game in July)
Played with a style that the fans grew to love,
Feet missing bases and balls missing glove,
Sharing first base with the hobbled Gil Hodges,
One of the most revered ex-Brooklyn Dodgers.
Both men would yield to a young high school grad
Called in September to show what he had.
Striking a double that stirred hopeful cheers,
Kranepool arrived — and would stay 18 years.

'Cross the Mets infield a voice could be heard:
"Where's what's-his-name? Who's that guy playing third?"
Zimmer began the long third-base procession;
Legions replaced him in tag-team succession:
Wrong Way Mantilla and Hot Rod Kanehl,
Shortstop Chacon and their keystone man Neal,
Herrscher and Cook and others to follow
All took their turns at the hot-corner hollow.

Out in the outfield the grass was no greener
Save for two pros with an all-star demeanor:
Ashburn played great, as he had in his youth,
Then called it quits for the Phils' TV booth;
Thomas went yard more than Maris that year
Giving us thirty-four reasons to cheer.

Other warm bodies in left-center-right
Couldn't allay the team's ongoing plight:
Woodling's and Bell's better days were behind them
Like long fly balls when their gloves couldn't find them;
Christopher, pride of St. Croix, Virgin Isles,
Rarely made plays near as big as his smiles;
Bobby Gene Smith, who was just passing through,
Proved that three names are no better than two;
Marshall played one game there, out of position,
Helping to found a long-held Mets tradition;
Hickman could bash when his bat found the ball;
Then there's DeMerit — the name says it all.

Coaching this crew, Lavagetto and Kress,
Ruffing and Hemus - and Hornsby no less! —
Tried to impart their collective acumen,
Proving they too could be erringly human.

Stengel, ol' Casey, would watch from the dugout
Antic misplays that would make his eyes bug out;
He who once led the great team 'cross the river,
Waited in vain for these Mets to deliver.
Triumphs were few, only forty were rendered —
One for each three that were sadly surrendered.
Of his poor troops he was heard to exclaim:
"Can't anybody [here] play this here game?"
Then in a voice more ironic than brazen
Christened these lovable losers "Amazin'!"

Yes, '62 was a magical season,
Wondrous beyond any logic or reason.
Onward remembrances from way-back-when go,
Echoing groans and the cry "Yo lo tengo!"
Bad as it was it was good as it gets;
Proudly we hailed: "Let's Go Mets! Let's Go Mets!"

Friday, August 13, 2010

Brooks Robinson


Wikipedia - "Brooks Calbert Robinson, Jr. (born May 18, 1937) is an American former third baseman in Major League Baseball. He played his entire 23-year career with the Baltimore Orioles (1955–77). Robinson was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1983. Robinson began his professional baseball career as an 18 year old with the Orioles, and gained great renown for his fielding ability. Nicknamed 'The Human Vacuum Cleaner', he is generally acclaimed as the greatest defensive third-baseman of all time."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference

Fred Chappell - "Third Base Coach"

He commands as mysteriously as
the ghost of Hamlat's father.

Shuffles & tug & yawns & spits.
Like a steeplejack he itches weirdly and continually.

Dances on his grave plot.
Prophetic flame at the wiped lip.

The fouls go by him like tracer bullets.
Writes runes with his toe, healthy spells.

Like an Aeschylan trageds he's static; baffling;
Boring; but.

Urgent with importt.

Robin Rule - "The Baseball Prayer"

Pitcher: Strike 'em out
Basemen: Tag 'em out
Shortstop: Throw 'em out
Fielders: Can o' Corn
Catchers: Get 'em at home
Batters: Show 'em where you live

Robin Rule - "Dedication"

To the Churchboy, Sparkey and T Bird
To all the men who as boys
slept with their gloves
To Ari who gave me three Will Clark cards
and to the cat who led me
deep into the Temple of Baseball

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Grand slam


Wikipedia - "In the sport of baseball, a grand slam is a home run hit with all the bases occupied by baserunners, thereby scoring four runs—the most possible on a single play. According to The Dickson Baseball Dictionary, the term originated in the card game of contract bridge, in which a grand slam involves taking all the possible tricks. The word slam, by itself, is usually connected with a loud sound, particularly of a door being closed with excess force; thus, slamming the door on one's opponent(s)."
Wikipedia

Linda Kittell - "Letter to Hugo from Payette, Idaho, Killebrew Field"

Dear Dick,

Let's say I came here with a dream. The last
good hit I had came years ago
when I took it all in stride
and swung from the hips. Let's say
the grandstand's still here, not this
pile of paint chips and blanched wood, chicken wire
rustling in the wind. Tonight the outfield's
not gone to weeds and seedlings, outcasts
from the maples that canopy right field. And ants haven't turned
that first base bag into home.

At the gas station
I learned I should go right,
then straight onto Killebrew Drive. What drive? Nothing here
lasts long enough to be a homer, even lives
turn to fractions, numbers and percentages on the bronze and money
raised with autographs. How important is a name? How long
should I look at a shelf of books, for a self
on the lineup tacked to the dugout?
From where you sit, the light
might be too bright. Where I sit
the concrete roof's too low.

Out in the bullpen
the tall guy's still tossing. Every night
seems the sameóthat kid comes down and asks
for you by name. You tell him
"Don't think Hugo's playing tonight" then run out
onto the field. I want to run too,
not swing for the fences, but slap
to the hole and tip my cap
from what's left of first base. Then I'll be yours
from ninety feet out, watching for a sign.

The moon's up there, fat
and round as a kid's dream. Throw it in here,
letter high.

Linda

Scott A. Winkler - "Riverview Park Baseball Diamond December 25, 1998"

The crow roams the hole between short and third,
picks up and puts down his scaly feet
between snow patches that crust over the dirt skin.
He peers toward the plate
and squints a black marble-eyed challenge
to a ghost only he sees–
a batter who knocks snow from his cleats
with a phantom white ash club.
"Come on," the crow's voice cracks, "you can't hit one past me."

His weight shifts from foot to foot,
his wings, feathers spread, skim the ground–
black on white under winter's blue sky–
and he crouches,
waiting for April.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Juan Marichal


Wikipedia - "Juan Antonio Marichal Sánchez (born October 20, 1937 in Laguna Verde, Dominican Republic) is a former right-handed pitcher in Major League Baseball. Playing for the San Francisco Giants most of his career, Marichal was known for his high leg kick, pinpoint control and intimidation tactics, which included aiming pitches directly at the opposing batters' helmets."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference, YouTube - Juan Marichal "The Dominican Dandy"

Rodney Torreson - "Dreams Should Not Dog Great Center Fielders"

who come in from the pasture.
Dreams should be pets gone fat.

In nightmares Mantle is
cramped, broad-shouldered,
in a taxi, hungry
as Mutt, his father,
who pitched his free time
to get Mick a ticket
from the mines.
He's late for the game, always.
And DiMaggio at the airport,
despite his tall grace,
eyes darting like some terrier's
as he stands beside his luggage,
glances at his watch;
he is late, as if he's waited years
to board a flight
that takes him back
to Marilyn.

And Mantle's dreams
can't shake the guards.
The announcer says,
"Now batting ... number 7,"
as Mantle finds a hole
in the fence
but can't squeeze through.
And DiMaggio
for twenty-one years
sends six red roses
three times a week
to her Hollywood crypt,
but they're a dog's
nervous patter.

The dreams of the greats should
be tame, trained
to open and close a gate,
with Mantle strolling
his heaver in center;
Monroe on her toes,
smiling, leaning into
The Clipper's arms,
returning the roses of her
red lips.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Ray Chapman


Jeff Suntala
Wikipedia - "Raymond Johnson Chapman (January 15, 1891 – August 17, 1920) was an American baseball player, spending his entire career as a shortstop for Cleveland. He is the second of only two Major League Baseball players to have died as a result of an injury received in a game (the first was Mike 'Doc' Powers in 1909); Chapman was hit in the head by a pitch thrown by Yankees pitcher Carl Mays. His death led Major League Baseball to establish a rule requiring umpires to replace the ball whenever it became dirty. His death was also one of the examples used to emphasize the need for wearing batting helmets (although the rule was not adopted until over thirty years later). His death was partially the reason MLB banned the spitball after the season."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference

Thomas Michael McDade - "Autographs"

The homeless guy with eyes
glued to the sports page
doesn't know he once served me
Buds at a dark morning bar
on Route 22.
He couldn'ít keep quiet
about his minor
league baseball career.
I don't recall the details,
the stats,
players who moved up
to the bigs without him.
But here at the Burger King
I watch as his eyes move
to his hand curled
like it's waiting for a ball
to drop from the fingers
of a pitching coach
who just summoned him
to the mound.
Walking to the men's room
I pass his table,
notice forehead stitches
that loop like Spalding's.
The paper is open to race results.
Blue fading horses' names
crowd his palm
like autographs
on an old team ball.

Kim Alan Chapman - "Eternal"

That afternoon the light
of red autumn sank to earth.
We played ball, a batter
and two fielders shagging flies
in long-armed sprints
and dead-tracked lurches after shots
hung up in the arches of elms.
The flat smack like a hand on a table
was the same as alwaysóthe kiss
of wood on leather, then the white flurry
jerking and looming in the grass
like a rabbit dodging what wanted it.
My palm stung the same way
after I caught. In my throwing arm
a twinge of history reminding me
that summer always comes,
the game is the same, the glove
broken in even more, which is good.
We meet ourselves stepping up
to the plate, tapping it, cocking back
and ageless in that eager stance.
Playing deep in autumnís territory
the glove fits the agile hand
as if two hands, joined for comfort.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Roberto Clemente


Wikipedia - "Roberto Clemente Walker (August 18, 1934 – December 31, 1972) was a Puerto Rican professional baseball player and a Major League Baseball right fielder. He was born in Carolina, Puerto Rico, the youngest of seven children. On November 14, 1964, he married Vera Zabala at San Fernando Church in Carolina. The couple had three children: Roberto Jr., Luis Roberto and Enrique Roberto. He began his professional career playing with the Santurce Crabbers in the Puerto Rican Professional Baseball League (LBPPR). While he was playing in Puerto Rico, the Brooklyn Dodgers offered him a contract to play with the Montreal Royals. Clemente accepted the offer and was active with the team until he was drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates in the Major League Baseball draft that took place on November 22, 1954."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference, PBS, YouTube

Tom Clark - "The Great One"

So long Roberto Clemente
you have joined the immortals
who've been bodysnatched
by the Bermuda Triangle

When your plane went down
it forced tears out of grown men
all over the hemisphere
Al Oliver and
even Willie Stargell cried

You had a quiet
pissed-off pride
that made your countrymen
look up to you
even if you weren't
taller than they

No matter how many times
Manny Sanguillen
dove for your body
the sun kept going down
on his inability to find it

I just hope those Martians realize
they are claiming the rights to
far and away the greatest rightfielder
of all time

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Box score


Wikipedia - "In baseball, the statistical summary of a game is reported in a box score. An abbreviated version of the box score, duplicated from the field scoreboard, is the line score. Invention of the box score is credited to Henry Chadwick by the Baseball Hall of Fame."
Wikipedia

Mikhail Horowitz - "The All-Shakespeare Team"

C John Henry, King Henry the Fourth

1B Rudy York, King Henry the Fifth
2B Mariano Duncan, Macbeth
SS Willie Miranda, The Tempest
3B Fred Lear, King Lear
OF Jim Fairey, A Midsummer Night's Dream
OF Dick Porter, Macbeth
OF John Titus, Titus Andronicus

RHP J.R. Richard, King Richard the Third
Rick Lysander, A Midsummer Night's Dream
Les Lancaster, King Henry the Fourth

LHP Tommy John, King John

MGR Phil Regan, King Lear

Kenneth C. Hoffman - "The Batter"

I can feel the tension building,
Our team's down by three -
Bases are loaded, it's in the ninth inning,
The batter stands there like a tree.
His steady eyes pierce the man on the mound,
Fierce concentration cuts all of the sound.
He plants his feet, sure of his might,
His grip on the bat, knuckles white.
He takes the first strike, high inside corner,
The second pitch flew - a wicked chin burner.
He could feel the wind but never flinched,
The next curved towards his knees,
They moved not an inch.
A hysterical crowd now wants to see blood -
The noise drowns his brain
Like a powerful flood.
His gut says the pitcher's fast ball will end it,
And when it comes, he'll know where to send it.
His anger whipped the bat around -
A deafening crack, right to the mound.
But it was up and away,
A four run homer that saved the day!