Outside, the chaos of money changing hands,
smell of hot fat, kids drumming on plastic barrels, cans,
discreet scalpers with three down front, want some?
Inside, the mystery
of the still field, open like a chalice.
The pitcher on the mound gathers himself,
pauses,
a long pause,
lets go
and the batter uncoils
and the ball goes up, up,
past vendors climbing tier on tier
lofting red trays of cola, rafts of peanuts, silver boxes of hot dog suppers,
past the exhortations to civility and moderation—
the use of coarse language will result in immediate ejection
from the ballpark—
and the crowd begins to pulse
anemone arms rising and falling
harmonized by the play of running men.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Moses Fleetwood "Fleet" Walker
Wikipedia - "Moses Fleetwood 'Fleet' Walker (October 7, 1857 – May 11, 1924) was an American Major League Baseball player and author who is credited with being the first African American to play professional baseball."
Wikipedia, Negro League Baseball Players Association, Baseball Reference, Playing Field: Racial Segregation on the Baseball Field
Bill Meissner - "Mickey Mantle's Last Dream"
He takes a deep breath, puffs his cheeks and
swings. Dreams are the sound of leather meeting
the whorls in the wood grain, dreams
are chalk dust, floating beyond home plate.
In this dream, Yankee Stadium is on the moon.
His hit rises high and deep, the red seams spinning lazily.
The ball floats over
the stadium roof, keeps arcing
until it climbs into orbit.
Instead of running the bases, he dashes toward the outfield,
lies down on the stiff grass of center, arms crossed,
and watches as the fans wave it goodbye
each time it passes overhead.
swings. Dreams are the sound of leather meeting
the whorls in the wood grain, dreams
are chalk dust, floating beyond home plate.
In this dream, Yankee Stadium is on the moon.
His hit rises high and deep, the red seams spinning lazily.
The ball floats over
the stadium roof, keeps arcing
until it climbs into orbit.
Instead of running the bases, he dashes toward the outfield,
lies down on the stiff grass of center, arms crossed,
and watches as the fans wave it goodbye
each time it passes overhead.
Mikhail Horowitz - "The All-Cosmopolitan Team"
C Paul Florence
1B Rudy York
2B Miguel Cairo
SS Sal Madrid
3B Kelly Paris
OF Claudell Washington
OF Clyde Milan
OF Daryl Boston
RHP Jose Lima
Jose Santiago
Reggie Cleveland
Paul Moskau
Steve Phoenix
LHP Ken Patterson
Jon Raleigh
BENCH Charlie Hamburg
Joe Hague
MGR Dave Bristol
1B Rudy York
2B Miguel Cairo
SS Sal Madrid
3B Kelly Paris
OF Claudell Washington
OF Clyde Milan
OF Daryl Boston
RHP Jose Lima
Jose Santiago
Reggie Cleveland
Paul Moskau
Steve Phoenix
LHP Ken Patterson
Jon Raleigh
BENCH Charlie Hamburg
Joe Hague
MGR Dave Bristol
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Eddie Murray
Wikipedia - "Eddie Clarence Murray (born February 24, 1956 in Los Angeles, California) is a former Major League Baseball first baseman who was known as one of the most reliable and productive hitters of his era, earning the nickname 'Steady Eddie'. Murray is regarded as one of the best switch hitters ever to play the game. He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2003."
Wikiedia, Baseball Reference
H. R. Coursen - "Second"
When I got interested in baseball, Ruth
was still alive, and Gehrig, Grove, and Honus,
greatest of the shortstops. Then the bonus:
Joe DiMaggio turned center field to truth
for any ten-year-old within the reach
of the real grass beneath the steel frame
of Yankee Stadium, and when you came
from the grimy Bronx to that oasis, each
batted ball looked like a homer at first,
until it settled into neatsfoot and
a casual fling from the vast and distant land
called outfield. A double play, rehearsed
a thousand times—Crosetti, Gordon, Dahlgren—
an easy game of backyard catch, back then.
The first World Series was still recalled, back when
the biggest war had been World War One.
It was not called that in 1939.
A shadow slides across the luminous line.
was still alive, and Gehrig, Grove, and Honus,
greatest of the shortstops. Then the bonus:
Joe DiMaggio turned center field to truth
for any ten-year-old within the reach
of the real grass beneath the steel frame
of Yankee Stadium, and when you came
from the grimy Bronx to that oasis, each
batted ball looked like a homer at first,
until it settled into neatsfoot and
a casual fling from the vast and distant land
called outfield. A double play, rehearsed
a thousand times—Crosetti, Gordon, Dahlgren—
an easy game of backyard catch, back then.
The first World Series was still recalled, back when
the biggest war had been World War One.
It was not called that in 1939.
A shadow slides across the luminous line.
Pamela Yenser - "Summer Games"
Blame me. Blame history.
Or blame yourself if life lies
foul and love's a mystery
(foul play!) we half realize
through our fingers in the dark—
like those leather-hard, hand-sewn
balls of flesh which symbolize
your sex. To each his own.
Now give me your hand—and glove.
Let me show you a softer mound,
greener fields empty with love,
a lighter stick to swing around.
You started this game in the first place,
bragging how you'd gotten to first base.
Or blame yourself if life lies
foul and love's a mystery
(foul play!) we half realize
through our fingers in the dark—
like those leather-hard, hand-sewn
balls of flesh which symbolize
your sex. To each his own.
Now give me your hand—and glove.
Let me show you a softer mound,
greener fields empty with love,
a lighter stick to swing around.
You started this game in the first place,
bragging how you'd gotten to first base.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Baseball scorekeeping
Wikipedia - "Baseball scorekeeping is the practice of recording the details of a baseball game as it unfolds. Professional baseball leagues hire official scorers to keep an official record of each game (from which a box score can be generated), but many fans keep score as well for their own enjoyment. Scorekeeping is usually done on a printed scorecard and while official scorers must adhere precisely to one of the few different scorekeeping notations, most fans exercise some amount of creativity and adopt their own symbols and styles."
Wikipedia, Baseball Almanac, Dan's Guide to Baseball Scorekeeping, Baseball Basics: How to Keep Score, YouTube - How to Keep Score in Baseball : How to Note a Base runner on a Scorecard, YouTube - iScore Baseball Scorekeeping Tutorial, iScore
Fred Chappell - "Fast Ball"
for Winthrop Watson
The grass raw and electric
as the cat's whiskers.
3 and 2.
At secoond the runner: loiters:
nervous as the corner
junkie: loitering for a connection.
Hunched like the cat, the batters;
his prehensile
bat he curls and uncurls.
The pitcher hitches & hitches.
At last the hitcher pitches.
"It gets about as big," Ty
Cobb said, "as a watermelon seed.
It hisses at you as it passes."
The outfielders prance like kittens
back to the dugout.
They've seen what they're glad they
don't have to worry about.
The grass raw and electric
as the cat's whiskers.
3 and 2.
At secoond the runner: loiters:
nervous as the corner
junkie: loitering for a connection.
Hunched like the cat, the batters;
his prehensile
bat he curls and uncurls.
The pitcher hitches & hitches.
At last the hitcher pitches.
"It gets about as big," Ty
Cobb said, "as a watermelon seed.
It hisses at you as it passes."
The outfielders prance like kittens
back to the dugout.
They've seen what they're glad they
don't have to worry about.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Warren Spahn
Wikipedia - "Warren Edward Spahn (April 23, 1921 – November 24, 2003) was an American left-handed pitcher in Major League Baseball who played for 21 seasons, all in the National League. He won 20 games each in 13 seasons, including a 23-7 record when he was age 42. Spahn was the 1957 Cy Young Award winner, and was the runner-up three times, all during the period when just one award was given."
Wikipedia, Baseball Reference
Phil Rizzuto - "Hero or the Goat"
All right, this is it,
The whole season coming down
To just one ball game,
And every mistake will be magnified,
And every great play will be magnified,
And it's a tough night for the players,
I'll tell ya.
I know last night, being in the same situation many times
With the great Yankee teams of the past,
you stay awake,
And you dream,
And you think of what might be,
If you are the hero or the goat.
October 14, 1976
AMERICAN LEAGUE EAST PLAYOFF
Final game
Kansas City at New York
Pregame show
The whole season coming down
To just one ball game,
And every mistake will be magnified,
And every great play will be magnified,
And it's a tough night for the players,
I'll tell ya.
I know last night, being in the same situation many times
With the great Yankee teams of the past,
you stay awake,
And you dream,
And you think of what might be,
If you are the hero or the goat.
October 14, 1976
AMERICAN LEAGUE EAST PLAYOFF
Final game
Kansas City at New York
Pregame show
Bill Meissner - "Something About Certain Baseball Fields"
He doesn't know why he suddenly turns off the freeway,
steps out of his long, shiny car, drops his
keys that bury themselves in the soft dirt of the lot.
He tugs at the tie that's always knotted tightly
at his throat, strolls to the place
where the sunlight plays across the outfield
like pale yellow music, where
grass blades applaud subtly in the wind.
He remembers standing on fields like these as a kid
in a frayed Little League shirt, his cap sideways on his head.
He'd run for that high pop-up,
a precious leather jewel he always seemed to catch.
He thinks how easy it is to miss
a life, to stand empty-handed for years beneath
an avalanche of sales slips and jagged envelopes.
Now his three-piece suit seems to melt off, pool at his feet,
and he's naked.
As if pulled by a cord tied to the earth of center field,
he kneels down, curls up.
He feels the slow pain, then a sudden brightness
fills his eyes:
he takes the first quick gasp of air as the world
gently slaps him.
At last he can open his lungs
wide and cry, a cry that might, from across the field,
sound almost like a cheer.
steps out of his long, shiny car, drops his
keys that bury themselves in the soft dirt of the lot.
He tugs at the tie that's always knotted tightly
at his throat, strolls to the place
where the sunlight plays across the outfield
like pale yellow music, where
grass blades applaud subtly in the wind.
He remembers standing on fields like these as a kid
in a frayed Little League shirt, his cap sideways on his head.
He'd run for that high pop-up,
a precious leather jewel he always seemed to catch.
He thinks how easy it is to miss
a life, to stand empty-handed for years beneath
an avalanche of sales slips and jagged envelopes.
Now his three-piece suit seems to melt off, pool at his feet,
and he's naked.
As if pulled by a cord tied to the earth of center field,
he kneels down, curls up.
He feels the slow pain, then a sudden brightness
fills his eyes:
he takes the first quick gasp of air as the world
gently slaps him.
At last he can open his lungs
wide and cry, a cry that might, from across the field,
sound almost like a cheer.
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