Baseball Poem of the Month
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by Rob Vogt
Right-handers are power pitchers.
They come from Texas, raised on beef
and christened with names like Nolan and Roger.
Left-handers are crafty southpaws.
No one knows exactly where they come from,
but they do strange things in the clubhouse,
like reading books in front of their lockers.
Right-handers pitch until their arms fall off,
or until they can no longer make it out of the seventh inning
without assistance from a sub-species known as a relief pitcher.
Left-handers pitch into their early forties,
or until they are offered jobs in the broadcast booth.
Right-handers throw 95-mph fastballs
at disrespectful, plate-hugging batters,
the baseballs connecting with a painful thud,
their seams leaving tiny, red bite marks
on hitters’ barely-covered flesh.
Left-handers nibble around the plate,
Lulling batters to sleep,
luring umpires into expanded strike zones.
Right-handers storm off the mound
at the end of an inning, pumping their fists –
cursing,
spitting,
glaring.
Left-handers curlicue called strike threes
around the outside corner and walk off the field quietly,
their eyes focused on the path to the dugout
and nothing more.
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Bio of Poet: Rob Vogt (Los Angeles, CA) teaches writing at the University of Southern California and has had a poem nominated for a Pushcart prize.
Bleacher Rat
by Joyce Kessel
I grew up a National League fan
of the Pirates, Cards, Reds & Giants,
not even knowing many decades before
my Buffalo Bisons played in the Senior League
well before becoming a minor league stalwart.
So I'd pray for sunny skies over Forbes Field
rather than Cleveland's "Mistake by the Lake."
My rare defection to the American League
came when the Orioles gained Frank Robinson
in that lopsided trade and after,
who couldn't have appreciated Cal Ripken?
My dad & I would troll the minor leagues
where for some reason affiliations
didn't seem to matter as much,
at least not to me,
who took in the green expanses
beyond dirt as the glowing diamonds
they were meant to be,
even in parks that were bare shadows
to Little League fields today.
In bandbox fields
and open air bleachers
we'd watch players with numbers,
but no names on their uniforms,
trading cards in their future or past
or not at all, their talents raw and wild.
I learned a geography of Rustbelt cities:
Toledo Mudhens, Columbus Clippers,
Rochester Redwings, Syracuse Chiefs,
Geneva Cubs, Oneonta Yankees,
Niagara Falls Rainbows,
a day’s ride away,
hoping they’d play two,
and mastering the geometry
& hieroglyphs of scorecards.
Bio of Poet: Joyce Kessel (Hamburg, NY) is a widely-published poet and a teacher at Villa Maria College in Buffalo. Sample recordings of her work can be heard at www.thinktwiceradio.com
Baseball Poem of the Month: February 2011
McNeil Island Penitentiary Closes
Bio of Poet: Kevin Miller (Tacoma, Washington) is the author of Home & Away: The Old Town Poems, his third collection of poems. It was published in 2008 by Pleasure Boat Studio.
Bio of Poet: Ed McCafferty (Alexandria, VA) has made several previous appearances in Spitball.
Bio of Poet: David S. Pointer (Murfreesboro, TN) is the author of the poetry chapbook Warhammer Piano Bar published by Thunderclap Press.
Bio of Poet: M. T. Corrigan (Lewiston, ME) appeared in the Summer 1994 issue of Spitball.
Bio of Poet: This poem by Mark Hinton (Bloomington, MN) is from a series of poems by the poet about the players on baseball cards.
Bio of Poet: Larry Granger (Bloomington, MN) is a historian and writer who has coached youth baseball for many years in the Bloomington and St. Paul, MN areas.
Bio of Poet: Robert Manaster has published poems in various journals including Many Mountains Moving, Wisconsin Review, and Sport Literate. He lives in Champaign, IL.
Bio of Poet: Howard Rosenberg writes a blog about the New York Mets called "metbaseball.blogspot.com" and lives in Sewell, NJ.
Bio of Poet: Ed Werstein of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, is a lifelong Detroit Tigers fan who grew up south of the Motor City. His work has appeared in Verse Wisconsin and Vampyr Verses.
Bio of Poet: Janet Kamnikar lives in Fort Collins, Colorado and recently published a baseball poem about her father in plains song review (Univ. of Nebraska). She and her husband take in Cubs games every spring in Mesa, AZ.
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by Kevin Miller
The island boat sails
empty one way. For
years I told the kids
of our away games
against fed inmates,
the Native pitcher
with hand-carved knives
tattooed underside
his forearms, his stare
walleyed as search lights
when a kid sixteen
brushed him back. He eyed
me with unwieldy
daggers, safe behind
horizontal bars,
I squatted, signaled
for a curve. Bleacher
bums hooted, howled,
and bet cigarettes
on each pitch. One guy
yelled, He killed seven
guys, watch your back
at the plate. Hitters
joked about playing
the next game at our place.
We split the double
header, and ate lunch
At the big house.
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Bio of Poet: Kevin Miller (Tacoma, Washington) is the author of Home & Away: The Old Town Poems, his third collection of poems. It was published in 2008 by Pleasure Boat Studio.
Casey Park
by Ed McCafferty
There are youngsters playing pick-up baseball
on a hardscrabble field
in the Heights section of Wilkes-Barre, PA.
We are not a real team,
we have no uniforms,
and our parents don’t watch us play.
To settle first pick
in choosing sides we spit
on a smooth flat stone
and toss it in the air-
one side wet
one side dry.
Today the entire Heights
is the stone come down
on its wet side.
The Asphalt on Empire Street
lucent lavender,
the infield at Casey Park
rainwet orange,
the woods beyond
deep blue and
heavy with rain.
The sand quarry
is a sienna pit,
and the coal-company houses
edging the woods
are slaked a corrugated gray.
A cool breeze blows
in from the highway,
and blows into my memory.
Twenty years later I return.
The woods, the sand pit, the company houses
are paved over into an industrial park.
But Casey Field thrives,
now edged with an outfield fence,
and now a Little League field
where real teams play.
Bio of Poet: Ed McCafferty (Alexandria, VA) has made several previous appearances in Spitball.
Gum Based Good Times
by David S. Pointer
The antique gumball
machine tech patted
his little globe dispenser
saying it was "the gum"
that really got each
baseball game started
and helped a fastball
burn hot as a fireplace
front or brought out a
cartridge box boom
at the crack of the bat
or helped the coach
keep up maintenance
on all our game gear
stored in that Nicaraguan
coffee gunny sack
season after season,
so in baseball’s brief
little league time line
it’s the chewing gum
that may be going down
into history with the
chomping rest of us.
Bio of Poet: David S. Pointer (Murfreesboro, TN) is the author of the poetry chapbook Warhammer Piano Bar published by Thunderclap Press.
Sandlot Dad
by M. T. Corrigan
Not to say too much, nor paint those shadows
deeper than they were, his serves just clearing
the drop of the woods, and that line of maples
along Route Two, a deeper green. Greater matters
attach themselves to the sense of things
we learned, like the shockless strokes of triples
scalded down the lines, singeing the Nadeaus'
birch trees: overspin, top hand. What meaning
could one assign to batting practice; who grapples
light enough to comprehend that meadow's
darknesses? He pitched from deepeer shade, peering
in to catch the sign to get me out. No scruples
for the dustbacks that flung me down to dirt:
"Get up, son. Hang in. Baseball doesn't hurt."
Bio of Poet: M. T. Corrigan (Lewiston, ME) appeared in the Summer 1994 issue of Spitball.
Roberto Clemente (Topps 1972)
by Mark Hinton
The first thing you notice is the ball
stopped in mid-air. Playfully tossed just
before the picture was taken. Right
hand already waiting for the ball
to come down. His tongue stuck out in mock
concentration. The red pickup truck
just beyond his right shoulder, the half-
empty stands, the fans standing along
the fence, even his shiny batting helmet
tell the story: another batting
practice before another game. Perhaps,
the World Series. The long black sleeves
would be right. The gesture too. A simple
act of easy grace declaring much:
certain knowledge of his own greatness.
Perhaps I read too much into this card.
But how can I not. The ball hanging
there when his plane could not.
Bio of Poet: This poem by Mark Hinton (Bloomington, MN) is from a series of poems by the poet about the players on baseball cards.
A Broken Window
by Larry Granger
Up the hill next to the
field is a house with an
inviting window just out
of range of our size batters
even on our best days.
Who will be first?
That’s why we had a fungo
contest with a crash being
the ultimate prize.
Finally we moved from home
plate to third base.
And it happened by one
of us.
I won’t say who.
Usually only the American
Legion team batters could
come anywhere close.
Parental pride replaced
the window and saved ball.
Full story not disclosed
until much later family
reunion.
Bio of Poet: Larry Granger (Bloomington, MN) is a historian and writer who has coached youth baseball for many years in the Bloomington and St. Paul, MN areas.
Rosemont Conventions
by Robert Manaster
I used to lounge around the inn's lobby
By the Bering Room. While standing near a wobbly
Table— my pockets stuffed with change— I'd agree
To buy the best from those sorry boys, who trusted
Me after trading for their cards. Sorry,
It didn't matter much to them since they lusted
For quarters anyway— they didn't know
The deals those days. How could I let them go?
A quarter for Fisk— or any great name—
They took without a struggle in their eyes.
They never knew, they never worked the game,
And I wasn't about to hint or compromise.
They themselves played it big: They'd plead and trade
For what they saw were players a good grade
Above the rest—Rose, Ripkin, Jackson, Hough—
Then laugh behind some backs when done. My take
Was to fish out nibblers not smart enough
To know a real worm from the rubbery fake.
Bio of Poet: Robert Manaster has published poems in various journals including Many Mountains Moving, Wisconsin Review, and Sport Literate. He lives in Champaign, IL.
Stetter to Sheffield to Matcovich
by Howard Rosenberg
His five-hundreth victim -
A name for trivia lovers;
The pitch, number nine,
A full-count slider,
Tossed nine days after
His Mets debut.
His swat -his first hit as a Met-
A gloved surprise for a bleacher buyer;
The media's momentum magnifying
The threesome's moment;
The catch worth bats, balls, jerseys,
The gifts of a Major League man
Whose dreams were now just memories,
Whose blast could not revive the past -
Only stir the present.
Bio of Poet: Howard Rosenberg writes a blog about the New York Mets called "metbaseball.blogspot.com" and lives in Sewell, NJ.
Ernie
by Ed Werstein
Five minutes after tuning in late
you knew all the important stuff:
score, inning, situation, pitchers,
key plays, game summary,
(the Tiges [like tikes with a hard g]
scored first on Kaline’s
sacrifice fly in the third,
but the Bosox took the lead in
their half of the inning
with a two run blast by Malzone
after a one out walk to Runnels.)
If the Tigers were on the road,
you got some additional info.
Maybe a description of Comiskey Park,
right down to those beautiful arches,
or the dimensions of Fenway’s
green monster.
But the stats were just the stitching
in the patchwork of beautiful pictures
he pieced together.
Moms from Midland, lads from Lansing,
and those gentlemen from Ypsilanti
will still manage to snag foul balls.
Watching called third strikes sail by,
hitters will still just stand there
like the house by the side of the road.
Double plays will still be two for the price of one,
homers will still be loooong gone,
and fans will still be holding onto their beers
during those tense ninth innings.
But, like a ground-rule double
he hopped the fence and left the park.
Ernie Harwell is gone,
and no one will ever tell us that way again.
Bio of Poet: Ed Werstein of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, is a lifelong Detroit Tigers fan who grew up south of the Motor City. His work has appeared in Verse Wisconsin and Vampyr Verses.
Star Fielder
By Janet Kamnikar
A slender crescent moon
lay on its back last night
low in the evening-blue sky,
while tacked high above it,
a single star shone forth,
the sky’s own diamond solitaire.
If that star should fall, I thought,
the moon, like a flashy center fielder,
would make a basket catch
and capture every drop of light.
Bio of Poet: Janet Kamnikar lives in Fort Collins, Colorado and recently published a baseball poem about her father in plains song review (Univ. of Nebraska). She and her husband take in Cubs games every spring in Mesa, AZ.
Fastball from My Dad
By Geoff M. Pope
Back in the '50s, my father
played minor league baseball
with the Philadelphia Phillies.
Bruce B. Pope was a lefty, and he hurt me,
hurt my hand bad when I was almost 11 -
after I blurted out something like, “Dad,
throw me one of your real fastballs, will ya?”
I watched his hesitation and the familiar but slightly
different windup this time; it was more pronounced,
just more dramatic, I thought. Then the pitch –
and my barely seeing it fly into my mitt.
I can still hear the hit, the violent Pop!
I tried hard not to cry when I caught it then dropped it.
I started bawling across the front yard, the palm
of my left hand stinging then throbbing,
the glove left on the ground…
me thinking something broken
and blurry like I will nev-er
question the pow-er
of my fath-er
a-gain.
Bio of Poet: Geoff M. Pope lives in the Seattle area, 16 miles from Safeco Field. His book of poems is titled The Word in Question
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by Bruce Harris
first game
Complete games were routine for some,
watched by hats and ties through fragrant cigar smoke.
Great Scott - home run derby - M&Ms - Maypo (hold the juice).
Baseball is Topps and a nickel is king.
September's done. Eight teams dream of afternoon October fun.
night cap
Save this. DH that. Pitch count. Everyone looks like a catcher now.
Corporate heads sit and talk while starting pitchers transact business with the bullpen.
Only birds get flipped.
Jokers and wild cards blow on hands. Stars under stars
while witches and ghosts and goblins play.
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Bio of Poet: Bruce Harris played high school baseball before the appearance of aluminum bats, the DH, and lights at Wrigley Field. He lives in Scotch Plains, NJ..
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by John Lambremont, Sr.
Age-old Southern faces,
tight-lipped and grim,
in their batting helmets,
their chins tucked in,
raise their steel barrels
and dig in again.
Remnants of their ancestry,
descendants of their kin,
that stared down steel barrels
and charged again,
knowing that their chances
to survive were slim.
The batteries of the enemy
are usually going to win.
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Bio of Poet: A graduate of Louisiana State University with a B.A. in English-Creative Writing, John Lambremont, Sr. is a widely-published, Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. The author of Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes, he lives in Baton Rouge, LA.
Baseball Poem of the Month: January 2010
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by Dudley Laufman
That time there in Warner, New Hampshire, game between Bradford and Warner, someone clouted a drive across the railroad tracks just in front of the afternoon run of the Concord to Claremont commuter. Ump made it a ground rule double. I think I told you this one, Arlington - Waltham. Spy Ponder hits one over the tracks in front of the 6:15 to Lexington, Watch City outfielder scoots through the underpass, comes back waving the ball, wants a ground rule double, ump says home run. Yeah, I told you that one. But get this. I don't know if this is true or not, but it makes a good story. The Red Sox are enroute Boston-Providence for an exhibition game in Pawtucket. Train passes through Sharon or some little town like that. Train whistles along the edge of the ball field, sandlot game, mix of grubby uniforms, and someone lines one towards the train. Ted Williams is standing out on the back platform, reaches out, snags the ball, and keeps it. Train rumbles on to Pawtucket, Williams clutching their only ball. Next day (the Sox stay over), train headed back to Beantown. The boys are out on the field (they found another ball). The Kid is out on the platform again, and he throws the ball back, autographed by all the Bosox. |
Bio of Poet: Dudley Laufman is the author of four volumes of poetry and the recipient of the GOVERNOR's AWARD IN THE ARTS Lifetime Achievement Folk Heritage Award for 2001. He lives in Canterbury, NH.
Baseball Poem of the Month: December 2009
| by Bruce D. Herman You go cheap, you get cheap. Take my first baseball glove - please! Oh, it's long gone, lumping its way to the center of the earth. It's about the time of the "Say Hey!" guy's wonder glove. At eight, my only catch was measles. The same year I peeled my first orange. In softball pickup games, chosen last, I roamed right field with a dog. The dog retrieved the balls I missed. When I asked for a baseball glove my dad went cheap. I think he paid for it in pesoes. Mom called my gift Quasimodo. It was that misshapened. All fat with batten, Quasimodo was unbendable, with a dimple for a pocket, with ill-strung hapless webbing. Girls thought I was cute. Feeling sorry for me, they taught me how to throw. Girls thought I was cute, and that's how I got through the baseball season. |
Bio of Poet: Bruce D. Herman is a retiree living in Brooklyn Center, MN. His poems have appeared in numerous periodicals, including "ArtWord Quarterly," "Mobius," and "Vintage Northwest."
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