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Canvas of a Season

By Ember Nickel

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The first bright streaks are quiet now. Above
The brash background, the paintbrush sinks into
The paint. This is just the beginning of
The season. Time for layer number two.

It won’t look like this when the year is done.
Most paint will cover over what’s below.
The topmost layer will display who won,
And only what shines through will let us know

What else took place. X-rays might let us see
Archives and dry box scores. But from a glance
The peaks and valleys will be brightest. We
Might forget what’s partly just random chance

As it’s overpainted. But that is how
All seasons go. We’ll enjoy the streaks now.

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A former contributor to Baseball Toaster, Ember’s blog is Lipogram! Scorecard!.

Posted 5/7/09

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2009 WBC

By Gary Gillette

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Patsy opponents,
U.S. ennui. Rising sun
Harbors hardball pearls.

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Gary Gillette is the executive editor and co-publisher of The Baseball Early Bird, among many other sports writing and research projects.

Posted 5/6/09

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Remembering Piazza

by Lew Brickhate
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I went down to CHAVEZ RAVINE
With sandpaper and VASELINE.

You see, my goal that NIGHT
Was to strike out Magic MIKE,

Catcher for the Dodger BLUE,
Part of the LaSorda CREW.

He granted me my one big WISH,
Which was to throw a major league PITCH,

But he hit it all NIGHT,
He hit it all NIGHT,
Off the walls, off the LIGHTS,

Fastball, spitball, knuckleball, CURVE,
Seems I got what I DESERVE.

He cracked a line drive back up the MIDDLE,
Solving for me my greatest RIDDLE:

Was I cut out for major league BALL,
Or just to sing about it at some MALL?

The question was all too CLEAR.
I am still glad I have my PAIR,

‘Cause he hit it all NIGHT,
He hit it all NIGHT…..

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Posted 5/5/09

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Sitting in Box Seats During Later Innings

By Tom Dyja

with apologies to Robert Frost

Whose seats these are, I think I know.
He lives in Elk Grove Village, though.
He will not see us sitting here
To watch Samardzija rear and throw.

My little son must think it queer
That I’m not tossing back a beer.
But since crap wage is all I make,
Eight bucks for Bud felt sort of dear.

The usher comes, gives me a shake
Because he knows there’s some mistake.
My kid’s just six. Who cares? The creep
Makes sure he knows that I’m a fake.

The ivy shudders, dark and deep.
But all I want to do is weep.
The seats I bought were way too cheap.
The seats I bought were way too cheap.

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Tom Dyja is the author most recently of Walter White: The Dilemma of Black Identity in America, as well as the novels The Moon in Our Hands, Meet John Trow, and the Civil War baseball novel Play for a Kingdom.

Posted 5/4/09.