Baseball Poems
Baseball and Chardonnay
I hold the heavy, thick, short cocktail glass in my hand
filled with cheap chardonnay.
Drain the glass
and look
through the bottom
at the refracted lights
of the ballpark
a wavering image dominating my view
from the living room window.
Why am I not there?
Outside Corner, Two Balls, One Strike
No men on base.
A lean, lanky,
left-handed pitcher controls the mound.
Devil’s spawn.
He made his major league debut the same year
the shortstop from the opposing team
was born.
Three balls.
Weather worn.
Weather wise.
He is slipping.
And the batter has a good eye.
Wind whips through the park.
Fans pull the hoods of their sweatshirts up
as the batter tosses the bat aside and takes first base.
A walk.
Lefty sighs.
Spits. Swallows.
Circles the white strip on the mound.
Tugs at his cap.
Three walks and four strikes for the inning,
he returns to the white strip in the center of the mound
readies himself to face the next batter.
Places his feet carefully into position.
Leans forward. Leans back.
Pulls his left leg in close, knee to chest.
Snap!
The left leg extends
and the knuckle ball explodes in slow motion.
Strike!
And again!
Lefty is an almost has-been.
A recent survival of the DL
destined to be traded at the end of the season.
His grey eyes stare into the catcher’s mask.
110 pitches.
Ill-used in his waning years,
yet he nods his assent.
The crowd holds their breath,
suspends their disbelief,
rises to their feet.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
They send their supplication out on the air
and the roar of 45,000 voices shouting, whistling
fills the park.
Lefty hears not,
sees not.
Pitches.
The batter swings.
The crowd roars!
Willing
able
to co-op this victory.
I hold the heavy, thick, short cocktail glass in my hand
filled with cheap chardonnay.
Drain the glass
and look
through the bottom
at the refracted lights
of the ballpark
a wavering image dominating my view
from the living room window.
Why am I not there?
Outside Corner, Two Balls, One Strike
No men on base.
A lean, lanky,
left-handed pitcher controls the mound.
Devil’s spawn.
He made his major league debut the same year
the shortstop from the opposing team
was born.
Three balls.
Weather worn.
Weather wise.
He is slipping.
And the batter has a good eye.
Wind whips through the park.
Fans pull the hoods of their sweatshirts up
as the batter tosses the bat aside and takes first base.
A walk.
Lefty sighs.
Spits. Swallows.
Circles the white strip on the mound.
Tugs at his cap.
Three walks and four strikes for the inning,
he returns to the white strip in the center of the mound
readies himself to face the next batter.
Places his feet carefully into position.
Leans forward. Leans back.
Pulls his left leg in close, knee to chest.
Snap!
The left leg extends
and the knuckle ball explodes in slow motion.
Strike!
And again!
Lefty is an almost has-been.
A recent survival of the DL
destined to be traded at the end of the season.
His grey eyes stare into the catcher’s mask.
110 pitches.
Ill-used in his waning years,
yet he nods his assent.
The crowd holds their breath,
suspends their disbelief,
rises to their feet.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
They send their supplication out on the air
and the roar of 45,000 voices shouting, whistling
fills the park.
Lefty hears not,
sees not.
Pitches.
The batter swings.
The crowd roars!
Willing
able
to co-op this victory.
posted by Bird | 7:48 PM
6 Comments:
oh, you came close, I'll give you that.
I could almost taste the dust, feel the bat.
I can smell the new gloves of the cherries as well as the sweat stained cowhides of the pros
BUT
I'de rather play than watch anyday.
I ain't very good, at least as far as throwing the ball now.
Used to be able to hit the catcher's position from out'a left field.
It always took a little practice, but it was always on the mark.
Now I'm lucky if it rolls the rest of the way in.....
Ah well. So much for that.
It's OK...
Just another reason to turn off the tv and go out and "play"
you're
on a roll!
¤ ¤ ¤
/t.
I think you need to continue writing poetry...often and in abundance...this is beautiful.
I have an idea about when folks come and tell me, "more red" or "less red" or whatever, but....
No men on base.
A lean'n'lanky
left-handed pitcher controls the mound.
Devil's spawn. (spit)
and with that, I'm tuckin' tail and runnin.
yeah but.
No but.
Yeah but.
I know nought of the mound.
I did sit in Yankee stadium one evening and look the pitcher in the eye.
I guess that was a good seat.
And why do we write?
Not for the applause nor the runs but for the joy of bat on ball.
Love
a
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