Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Stephen Cormany - "The Yankee Clipper and Cap't Ahab"
They say that Ahab
Emerged from the ocean
Pacific this time
In fact in San Francisco, by the gate
Trudged up the wharf
Barnacles and all
Until he found DiMaggio's place,
Found him soothin' himself at the bar,
Sipping a cocktail.
Ahab said, "Hey slim - give me a swig!"
Joe said, "Play the ball where it lies..."
Emerged from the ocean
Pacific this time
In fact in San Francisco, by the gate
Trudged up the wharf
Barnacles and all
Until he found DiMaggio's place,
Found him soothin' himself at the bar,
Sipping a cocktail.
Ahab said, "Hey slim - give me a swig!"
Joe said, "Play the ball where it lies..."
Tony Cosier - "Southpaw"
A twinge he did not like, a merest shade
Of feeling, as easily second to first they played
One out away from this game, a thousand outs
He hoped from his last one. With dance, with shouts
They fired a circle around him and lobbed him the ball.
He paced and stooped and tried not to recall
What his shoulder had almost felt. He fastened a lace
Halfway between the rubber and first base,
Not even a line near, no man's land but his,
The hope, the fear, the silence none but his
And the twings he did not like, the merest shade,
Then, because there was nothing else to do,
He went back for the signal, kicked up a toe and threw.
Of feeling, as easily second to first they played
One out away from this game, a thousand outs
He hoped from his last one. With dance, with shouts
They fired a circle around him and lobbed him the ball.
He paced and stooped and tried not to recall
What his shoulder had almost felt. He fastened a lace
Halfway between the rubber and first base,
Not even a line near, no man's land but his,
The hope, the fear, the silence none but his
And the twings he did not like, the merest shade,
Then, because there was nothing else to do,
He went back for the signal, kicked up a toe and threw.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fred Merkle
Wikipedia - "Frederick Charles Merkle (December 20, 1888 – March 2, 1956), also known as 'Bonehead' Merkle, was an American first baseman in Major League Baseball. Although he had a lengthy career, he is best remembered for a controversial baserunning mistake he made while still a teenager."
Wikipedia
"Merkle's Boner refers to the notorious baserunning gaffe committed by rookie Fred Merkle of the New York Giants in a game against the Chicago Cubs in 1908. Merkle's failure to advance to second base on what should have been a game-winning hit led instead to a forceout at second and a tie game. The Cubs won the makeup game later, which proved decisive as they beat the Giants by one game to win the National League pennant in 1908. It has been described as 'the most controversial game in baseball history'."
W - Merkle's Boner, Baseball Reference
Ira Slotkin - "More Than A Game"
Saturdays we'd play catch in the back yard before dinner.
I was 10
standing with my back against the beige
concrete ash pit.
Toss and catch…toss and catch…toss and catch
rhythmic, relaxing
hand to glove to hand to glove
simple, silent, serene space
between throws.
Sometimes I'd sense Pop getting wound up:
Without asking
I'd crouch down, fist-smack
my glove, make a target,
scared,
because he always threw harder when he pitched.
Afterward he'd reminisce
about pitching semi-pro, how
to place rosined fingers just so
on the stitches, how to release the ball,
how his wrist wouldn't withstand
twisting because he played
First Violin in the orchestra, and piano.
" I had to choose," he'd say, voice trailing off,
a barely audible note bowed ever so softly.
And so he quit baseball.
Decades pass. Intermission at the symphony,
a seventh inning stretch
after a superb concerto,
Pop tells me a story
about a summer he had a chance
to play piano with
a dance combo at a Catskills resort.
"This is not music befitting my eldest son,"
his father told him sternly. Pop persisted.
"You want to play modern music?
You don't want to play violin?
Then don't."
And he
took the instrument
and smashed it against my father
who never again
touched a
violin.
A calm telling, a telling calm,
like an easy toss before a pitched battle.
Yet in the stillness -
the whoosh and crack of the bat as it swung and struck,
the sting penetrating the padded glove of time.
And I understood: from a mound of ashes
Pop would
I was 10
standing with my back against the beige
concrete ash pit.
Toss and catch…toss and catch…toss and catch
rhythmic, relaxing
hand to glove to hand to glove
simple, silent, serene space
between throws.
Sometimes I'd sense Pop getting wound up:
narrowing eyes, subtle twist of lip,
nervous rotating of the ball,
nod
to invisible catcher,
…dramatic pause…
Without asking
I'd crouch down, fist-smack
my glove, make a target,
scared,
because he always threw harder when he pitched.
Afterward he'd reminisce
about pitching semi-pro, how
to place rosined fingers just so
on the stitches, how to release the ball,
how his wrist wouldn't withstand
twisting because he played
First Violin in the orchestra, and piano.
" I had to choose," he'd say, voice trailing off,
a barely audible note bowed ever so softly.
And so he quit baseball.
Decades pass. Intermission at the symphony,
a seventh inning stretch
after a superb concerto,
Pop tells me a story
about a summer he had a chance
to play piano with
a dance combo at a Catskills resort.
"This is not music befitting my eldest son,"
his father told him sternly. Pop persisted.
"You want to play modern music?
You don't want to play violin?
Then don't."
And he
took the instrument
and smashed it against my father
who never again
touched a
violin.
A calm telling, a telling calm,
like an easy toss before a pitched battle.
Yet in the stillness -
the whoosh and crack of the bat as it swung and struck,
the sting penetrating the padded glove of time.
And I understood: from a mound of ashes
Pop would
reach back
raise rosined bow
place fingers just so on strings
nod to
an invisible conductor, and
…putting a little something extra on the ball …
play.
Phil Rizzuto - "The Bridge"
Two balls and a strike.
You know what they had on TV today, White?
Bridge on the River Kwai
Everybody should have gotten an Academy Award for
that movie.
I don't know how many times I've seen it.
About forty times.
Alec Guinness!
William Holden!
Three and one the count.
I just heard somebody whistle.
You know that song?
That's what they whistle.
Nobody out.
And he pops it up.
May 5, 1987
New York at Chicago
Joe Niekro pitching to Carlton Fisk
Second inning, no outs, bases empty
No score
You know what they had on TV today, White?
Bridge on the River Kwai
Everybody should have gotten an Academy Award for
that movie.
I don't know how many times I've seen it.
About forty times.
Alec Guinness!
William Holden!
Three and one the count.
I just heard somebody whistle.
You know that song?
That's what they whistle.
Nobody out.
And he pops it up.
May 5, 1987
New York at Chicago
Joe Niekro pitching to Carlton Fisk
Second inning, no outs, bases empty
No score
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Wally Moon
Wikipedia - "Wallace Wade Moon, known popularly as Wally Moon, (born April 3, 1930, in the small town of Bay in Craighead County, Arkansas) is a former Major League Baseball outfielder. Moon played his 12-year career in the National League for the St. Louis Cardinals (1954-1958) and Los Angeles Dodgers (1959-1965). He batted left-handed and threw right-handed."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Mikhail Horowitz - "The All-Meteorologic Team"
C Blimp Hayes
1B J. T. Snow
2B Gene Freese
SS Andy High
3B Sammy Hale
OF Curt Flood
OF Tim Raines
OF Larry Sheets
RHP
Rich Gale
Dave Frost
Mark Clear
Ken Cloude
Dave Weathers
LHP
Lou Sleater
BENCH
Ernie Gust
Razor Shines
MGR
Bobby Lowe
1B J. T. Snow
2B Gene Freese
SS Andy High
3B Sammy Hale
OF Curt Flood
OF Tim Raines
OF Larry Sheets
RHP
Rich Gale
Dave Frost
Mark Clear
Ken Cloude
Dave Weathers
LHP
Lou Sleater
BENCH
Ernie Gust
Razor Shines
MGR
Bobby Lowe
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Burleigh Grimes
Wikipedia - "Burleigh Arland Grimes (August 18, 1893 – December 6, 1985) was an American professional baseball player, and the last pitcher officially permitted to throw the spitball. He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1964."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fred Chappell - "Strike Zone"
for Joe Nicholls
Like the Presidency its size
depends upon the man.
Paneless window he doesn't want to smash,
the pitcher whittles at the casement.
The batter peers
into it like a peeping tom.
Does he like what he sees?
The limits get stricter
as they get less visible:
throwing at yards & yarks of McCovey,
an inch or so
of Aparicio,
the pitcher tries not to go
bats.
The umpire knows a secret.
But he gives no sign.
Ball 2.
Like the Presidency its size
depends upon the man.
Paneless window he doesn't want to smash,
the pitcher whittles at the casement.
The batter peers
into it like a peeping tom.
Does he like what he sees?
The limits get stricter
as they get less visible:
throwing at yards & yarks of McCovey,
an inch or so
of Aparicio,
the pitcher tries not to go
bats.
The umpire knows a secret.
But he gives no sign.
Ball 2.
Robert Francis - "Pitcher"
His art is eccentricity, his aim
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,
His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His techique how to vary the avoidance.
The others throw to be comprehended. He
Throws to be a moment misunderstood.
Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,
But every seeming aberration willed.
Not to, yet still, still to communicate
Making the batter understand too late.
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,
His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His techique how to vary the avoidance.
The others throw to be comprehended. He
Throws to be a moment misunderstood.
Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,
But every seeming aberration willed.
Not to, yet still, still to communicate
Making the batter understand too late.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Dock Ellis
Wikipedia - "Dock Phillip Ellis, Jr. (March 11, 1945 – December 19, 2008) was a Major League Baseball player who pitched for the Pittsburgh Pirates, among other teams. His best season was 1971, when he won 19 games for the World Series champion Pirates and was the starting pitcher for the National League in the All-Star Game. However, he is perhaps best remembered for the claim that he threw a no-hitter in 1970 while under the influence of LSD."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
YouTube - No Mas Presents: Dock Ellis & The LSD No-No by James Blagden
Tom Clark - "The Job"
Dock Ellis
pitches a
helluva ballgame,
makes two
bad pitches
all day,
and leaves
in the 8th
with a tie
and a pat
on the back
from Billy Martin
We all give him
a big hand
as he shambles
off the field,
eyes down
but with nothing
to be ashamed of
pitches a
helluva ballgame,
makes two
bad pitches
all day,
and leaves
in the 8th
with a tie
and a pat
on the back
from Billy Martin
We all give him
a big hand
as he shambles
off the field,
eyes down
but with nothing
to be ashamed of
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Don Angel - "The Strike of 1994"
The day was August twelfth
Owners wanted to share the wealth
The players walked
Both sides talked
Labor talks would cease
Season was now decease
World Series was not played
Players were not being paid
Spring training came
And it was not the same
Replacements and Minors there
Familiarity is very rare
The weak become independent
The strong remain dependent
They cross the line
The rest decline
A few fans attend
While most rescind
There's still peanuts, drinks, hot dogs and buns
But when all is said and done
If the best in baseball refuse to play
Others are willing to make Opening Day
Owners wanted to share the wealth
The players walked
Both sides talked
Labor talks would cease
Season was now decease
World Series was not played
Players were not being paid
Spring training came
And it was not the same
Replacements and Minors there
Familiarity is very rare
The weak become independent
The strong remain dependent
They cross the line
The rest decline
A few fans attend
While most rescind
There's still peanuts, drinks, hot dogs and buns
But when all is said and done
If the best in baseball refuse to play
Others are willing to make Opening Day
Douglas J. Cannato - "When Bunning Brusher Him Back"
I couldn't believe what happened
When Bunning brushed him back.
During the first of two in Cleveland,
The Tigers had the field
And my Indians the bat.
An inside pitch, as I recall,
Sent Piersall to the deck.
He charged the mound,
The benches cleared,
And I would never forget -
The fists, the anger, and the rage.
It was just a game,
But something changed inside this boy.
Some innocence was lost that day,
When Bunning brushed him back.
When Bunning brushed him back.
During the first of two in Cleveland,
The Tigers had the field
And my Indians the bat.
An inside pitch, as I recall,
Sent Piersall to the deck.
He charged the mound,
The benches cleared,
And I would never forget -
The fists, the anger, and the rage.
It was just a game,
But something changed inside this boy.
Some innocence was lost that day,
When Bunning brushed him back.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Robert A. Fink - "In Case You Thought They Played for Money"
Next Saturday catch Baseball's Game of the Week.
Study the man in right,
the forgotten one who dreams
of left-handed teams, all
pull hitters who send him deep
to make the leaping snag,
glove always just above the well.
Young women smile behind their hands.
The Commissioner's mother phones to say
an apple pie is cooling on the sill,
she's set an extra place for dinner.
Study the man in right,
the forgotten one who dreams
of left-handed teams, all
pull hitters who send him deep
to make the leaping snag,
glove always just above the well.
Young women smile behind their hands.
The Commissioner's mother phones to say
an apple pie is cooling on the sill,
she's set an extra place for dinner.
Walker Gibson - "In My Meanest Daydream"
I am throwing hard again
clipping corners, shaving
letters, dusting off
the heavy sticker crowding clean-up
clean down to his smelly socks -
& when my right spike hits
the ground he's had his look
already & gets
hollow in the belly -
in my meanest daydream I let fly
a sweet stresm of spit, my catcher
pops his mitt
& grins
& calls me baby.
clipping corners, shaving
letters, dusting off
the heavy sticker crowding clean-up
clean down to his smelly socks -
& when my right spike hits
the ground he's had his look
already & gets
hollow in the belly -
in my meanest daydream I let fly
a sweet stresm of spit, my catcher
pops his mitt
& grins
& calls me baby.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Larry Doby
Wikipedia - "Lawrence Eugene 'Larry' Doby (December 13, 1923 – June 18, 2003) was an American professional baseball player in the Negro Leagues and Major League Baseball. A native of Camden, South Carolina, he was the second black player to play in the modern major leagues and the first to do so in the American League. A center fielder, Doby appeared in seven All-Star games and finished second in the 1954 American League MVP voting."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
Charles North - "Movies"
A Day at the Races rf
The Maltese Falcon lf
Rules of the Game 3b
Children of Paradise cf
On the Waterfront 1b
The Lady Vanishes ss
The Baker’s Wife 2b
Odd Man Out c
Masculine Feminine p
The Maltese Falcon lf
Rules of the Game 3b
Children of Paradise cf
On the Waterfront 1b
The Lady Vanishes ss
The Baker’s Wife 2b
Odd Man Out c
Masculine Feminine p
Stuart Shea - "27 Fish"
27 fish came up,
27 fish went down.
Baiting his hook with sinkers
Sliders, heat, and curves,
Halladay set down every fish
And he betrayed no nerves.
27 fish came up,
27 fish went down.
Snaring every one
And tossing them in his boat,
Halladay did a good day’s work
And earned a right to gloat.
27 fish came up,
27 fish went down.
Hunter, Koufax, Robertson,
Bunning, Wells, Buehrle,
Halladay is now in
Interesting company.
27 fish came up.
27 fish went down.
27 fish went down.
Baiting his hook with sinkers
Sliders, heat, and curves,
Halladay set down every fish
And he betrayed no nerves.
27 fish came up,
27 fish went down.
Snaring every one
And tossing them in his boat,
Halladay did a good day’s work
And earned a right to gloat.
27 fish came up,
27 fish went down.
Hunter, Koufax, Robertson,
Bunning, Wells, Buehrle,
Halladay is now in
Interesting company.
27 fish came up.
27 fish went down.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
South End Grounds
Jeff Suntala
Wikipedia - "South End Grounds refers to any one of three baseball parks on one site in Boston, Massachusetts. They were home to the Boston club in the National Association and the National League from 1871 to 1914."
Wikipedia
Frank Van Zant - "I Wanna Be Like Moe Berg"
Let me be third-string catcher, paid
to talk talk in the bullpen.
Put me in the game
but only after the pitchers have all pinch hit and
played the OF, only after the second-string catcher
has been hurt, really hurt
(but first let me speak
to him, convince him we can't win without him)
Keep me
on the cloister of the bench, but let me leave the stadium
early, browse bookstores, talk to a French cabby
about Norman dialects.
Let me read
my foreign newspapers in the bullpen, and you may not
touch them, these divinations of world coin.
Let me live for free in your home
for weeks at a time, let me peek over the window-sill
of your conversations, let my charm and stories pay
for dinner, for new clothes lent from your closet,
a cab ride downtown.
But when you see me later
on the street, let me pass silently:
I'll say SHHH to you,
one finger over my mouth like a cave stone, so secretive,
you'll be sure I'm a spy, I'll earn
a law degree and never use it, learn
all the languages I can, then hold the words in, be intimate
with you and you will never know me.
I will be so anonymous, everyone will recognize me.
to talk talk in the bullpen.
Put me in the game
but only after the pitchers have all pinch hit and
played the OF, only after the second-string catcher
has been hurt, really hurt
(but first let me speak
to him, convince him we can't win without him)
Keep me
on the cloister of the bench, but let me leave the stadium
early, browse bookstores, talk to a French cabby
about Norman dialects.
Let me read
my foreign newspapers in the bullpen, and you may not
touch them, these divinations of world coin.
Let me live for free in your home
for weeks at a time, let me peek over the window-sill
of your conversations, let my charm and stories pay
for dinner, for new clothes lent from your closet,
a cab ride downtown.
But when you see me later
on the street, let me pass silently:
I'll say SHHH to you,
one finger over my mouth like a cave stone, so secretive,
you'll be sure I'm a spy, I'll earn
a law degree and never use it, learn
all the languages I can, then hold the words in, be intimate
with you and you will never know me.
I will be so anonymous, everyone will recognize me.
Robert L. Harrison - "The Baseball Card Dealer"
What price Goodens?
Mattingly make my day,
all the cards are mint I say.
Touch greatness,
feel heartbeats pressed
onto cardboard,
smell gum dust
and join the lines
waiting for a hobby high.
Give up your dollars
George Washington
never had a RBI.
Mattingly make my day,
all the cards are mint I say.
Touch greatness,
feel heartbeats pressed
onto cardboard,
smell gum dust
and join the lines
waiting for a hobby high.
Give up your dollars
George Washington
never had a RBI.
Ed Markowski - "My Last Hit"
Late at night
I can still
see the ball
arcing
over the third
base bag, just
inside the line,
hugging
the grass. The
fielder frozen solid,
his mitt a
heavy
stone, resting on
his thick knee.
And that was
it.
I can still
see the ball
arcing
over the third
base bag, just
inside the line,
hugging
the grass. The
fielder frozen solid,
his mitt a
heavy
stone, resting on
his thick knee.
And that was
it.
Monday, June 7, 2010
John E. Maxfield - "Hard Core Support"
My mother-in-law is a Senator's fan.
Even now - the team long moved,
The first to Minnesota
The second, Texas.
She'd root for anyone in Washington.
I watched her, years ago,
During a particularly loan drought.
Once again an early lead blown
The pitcher wild,
Seemed planted in the mound.
She stomped aeross and stretched to reach the manted
Switched off her small transistor:
"I can't stand listening to another
Mismanaged baseball game!"
But every little while she'd stop -
Click it on, confirm and click it off
Then stalk away, red hair flying -
Abristling banty hen whose chicks
Persisted in their foolish straying.
Even now - the team long moved,
The first to Minnesota
The second, Texas.
She'd root for anyone in Washington.
I watched her, years ago,
During a particularly loan drought.
Once again an early lead blown
The pitcher wild,
Seemed planted in the mound.
She stomped aeross and stretched to reach the manted
Switched off her small transistor:
"I can't stand listening to another
Mismanaged baseball game!"
But every little while she'd stop -
Click it on, confirm and click it off
Then stalk away, red hair flying -
Abristling banty hen whose chicks
Persisted in their foolish straying.
Robert Francis - "The Base Stealer"
Poised between going on and back, pulled
Both ways taut like a tightrope-walker,
Fingertips pointing the opposites,
Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball
Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on,
Running a scattering of steps sidewise,
How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases,
Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird,
He's only flirting, crowd him, crowd him,
Delicate, delcate, delicate, delicate - now!
Both ways taut like a tightrope-walker,
Fingertips pointing the opposites,
Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball
Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on,
Running a scattering of steps sidewise,
How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases,
Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird,
He's only flirting, crowd him, crowd him,
Delicate, delcate, delicate, delicate - now!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Two Finger Carney - "Hot Stove"
Before television
People talked
And when the snows came
People talked near the hot stove
Smell the bread baking
And wonder if the Babe
Really did call that homer
Pull off your wet boots
Prop up your feet so your soles
Are toasting
And wonder how Cobb would do
Against Carl Hubbell
Or how your favorite team
Of the past
Might fare next spring
If they could be resurrected
Or coaxed out of that Iowa cornfield
Sip some hot cocoa with marshmallows
Invite the kids to join in
Was it better when the gloves were small
Or is that just nostalgia?
For your own youth?
Could Canseco have started
For the '27 Yankees
And should games in which
The first hit is yielded in the 10th
Count as a no-hitter?
Steer clear of religion and politics
And players' salaries
And the afternoon can go on
Until sundown
Was the best-pitched game
The double no-no by Vaughn and Toney
Or Walsh's 1-0 loss to Joss' perfecto
Or the iron man duel between Burdette and Haddix?
And how come no one hits .400 any more?
The stoves are in junk yards or museums now, forever cool
But the questions live on
Talking baseball
Beats most things on TV
That is
When there's no game to watch
People talked
And when the snows came
People talked near the hot stove
Smell the bread baking
And wonder if the Babe
Really did call that homer
Pull off your wet boots
Prop up your feet so your soles
Are toasting
And wonder how Cobb would do
Against Carl Hubbell
Or how your favorite team
Of the past
Might fare next spring
If they could be resurrected
Or coaxed out of that Iowa cornfield
Sip some hot cocoa with marshmallows
Invite the kids to join in
Was it better when the gloves were small
Or is that just nostalgia?
For your own youth?
Could Canseco have started
For the '27 Yankees
And should games in which
The first hit is yielded in the 10th
Count as a no-hitter?
Steer clear of religion and politics
And players' salaries
And the afternoon can go on
Until sundown
Was the best-pitched game
The double no-no by Vaughn and Toney
Or Walsh's 1-0 loss to Joss' perfecto
Or the iron man duel between Burdette and Haddix?
And how come no one hits .400 any more?
The stoves are in junk yards or museums now, forever cool
But the questions live on
Talking baseball
Beats most things on TV
That is
When there's no game to watch
Judy Goldman - "Suicide"
The newspaper lied.
They did not find you
on the floor. Instead
you spent the afternoon
pitching with your son,
your face catching the silence
of the yard
like a soft leather glove
lovingly broken in.
And the light, the remarkable light,
ran over you so carelessly
it looked like silver numbers on your shirt.
You threw the ball for hours
as if there were no chance
night would ever search the corners
like the crowd
finding places in the stands,
their eyes marking the hard mound of dirt
below. For hours.
As if there were nothing at all
lefl to explain.
They did not find you
on the floor. Instead
you spent the afternoon
pitching with your son,
your face catching the silence
of the yard
like a soft leather glove
lovingly broken in.
And the light, the remarkable light,
ran over you so carelessly
it looked like silver numbers on your shirt.
You threw the ball for hours
as if there were no chance
night would ever search the corners
like the crowd
finding places in the stands,
their eyes marking the hard mound of dirt
below. For hours.
As if there were nothing at all
lefl to explain.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Butch Wynegar
Wikipedia - "Harold Delano 'Butch' Wynegar, Jr. (born March 14, 1956) is a former Major League Baseball catcher, and current hitting coach for the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Yankees triple A affiliate of the New York Yankees."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
Mikhail Horowitz - "Three Candidates for the Hall of Fame"
1.
Einstein, mit a catcher's mitt?
Either he's gonna catch them curves, or
Time flies.
2.
Sad Sam Beckett, foot in the bucket.
Waiting for Lefty Godot, Malone fans.
Endgame.
3.
Sun Ra, on base in outer space.
Each hieroglyphic on the scoreboard
Corresponds to a run on the keyboard.
Paul Marion - "Spring Fever"
Last Sunday in February.
Neighbors lean on warm cars.
Snow pulls away from the grass.
At the corner variety store
kids huddle out front,
hustle off, scattering
baseball card wrappers
colorful as April tulips.
Neighbors lean on warm cars.
Snow pulls away from the grass.
At the corner variety store
kids huddle out front,
hustle off, scattering
baseball card wrappers
colorful as April tulips.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Donna J. Gelagotis Lee - "Winter at the Ball Field"
The ball field
stetches out into
the park, its baselines
long legs.
In the armchair of winter
it relaxes, the tracks
of birds and small
animals trippings up
the baseline. The sun
opens itself
fully overhead
like the home run
of summer. I am sitting
on the bleachers. I have
dusted off a seat. The
wind cheers for me
as I watch the memory
of summer white out.
stetches out into
the park, its baselines
long legs.
In the armchair of winter
it relaxes, the tracks
of birds and small
animals trippings up
the baseline. The sun
opens itself
fully overhead
like the home run
of summer. I am sitting
on the bleachers. I have
dusted off a seat. The
wind cheers for me
as I watch the memory
of summer white out.
Michael Culross - "4. The Loneliness of the Outfield"
19 innings, no chances accepted - August 12, 1947
They never liked me
at the Milwaukee
park - that day the left
field stands were filled with
hecklers who pelted
me with catcalls and
empty beer cans; but
they tired in the
extra innings, and
most of them left. I
began to daydream
routine fly balls, line
drive doubles, a game-
losing error. But
I disappointed
the few who stayed to
the finish: their team
somehow managed to
lose it without me.
They never liked me
at the Milwaukee
park - that day the left
field stands were filled with
hecklers who pelted
me with catcalls and
empty beer cans; but
they tired in the
extra innings, and
most of them left. I
began to daydream
routine fly balls, line
drive doubles, a game-
losing error. But
I disappointed
the few who stayed to
the finish: their team
somehow managed to
lose it without me.
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