Elegy for Tiger Stadium

by Jim Daniels

Wrap yourself in nostalgia’s blankets
it’s cold outside.

But even the blanket’s moth-eaten,
ragged with grief.

For today Tiger Stadium comes down.

*

Oh, the old green wooden seats
banging to start up a rally

Oh, the corrupt ushers
in their crooked ties

barking at kids sneaking down
to the good seats

Oh, the long urinal troughs in the men’s room
the line up of drunks and young boys on tiptoe

Oh, the bullpens along the baselines
watching the wonderfully evil Goose Gossage
warm up, the ball exploding in the catcher’s mitt.

Oh, the waxy plastic beer cups stacking up
beneath the bleacher benches

Oh, my three-year-old daughter in her sundress
smiling in her Tiger hat that last season, last game.

Michigan and Trumbull, Michigan and Trumbull.
Cochrane and Kaline, Cochrane and Kaline.

*

Oh, so you want me to wrap things up do you?
A game permanently shortened by rain.

Just remember stepping through shadows
up the narrow fenced ramp
into the upper deck
and into the explosion of sunshine on green grass.
Sunshine and green grass.

Squint and be a good boy.
Squint, and don’t cry.

Remember your first game ever
before anyone lied to you.

Let me call them out: Harmon Killebrew,
Boog Powell, Dick McAullife, #3,
with the stance of a mad scientist
trying to kill his creation.

Come on back for your cup of coffee
in the bigs, Purnell Goldy.

Come back for your one good season
Champ Summers. Let me say it again,

Champ Summers. Gates Brown.
Earl Wilson, the pitcher who pinch-hit,

Ron LeFlore, the ex-con. Jim Northrup,
grand-slam king. Bases loaded, dude.

Ray Oyler, come on back and crack .200.
Stormin’ Norman Cash come on back
and hit 361 again and show it was no fluke.

A high foul ball. A major league pop-up
and Freehan has the mask off, and Lance
Parrish has the mask off, and Mickey Cochrane
has the mask off.

Oh, big Frank Howard hitting one over the roof.
Oh, Dave Rozema karate-kicking his way
out of baseball just because he was young
and excitable.

Okay, Bird, I know you’ve been waiting,
come on back and tell the ball a few things
you forgot to say.

Bleachers or General Admission
Ladies/Retirees Day. Polish-
American Night.

50,000 kids with free bats bouncing them
off concrete. Bring back the father-son games

Charlie Dressen is my grandfather. Mayo Smith
my great uncle. Billy Martin the dark sheep.
Al Kaline, kind uncle. Gibby the cousin
the parents worried about.

Roll off the tarp, drag the infield.
Herbie do the Shuffle one more time

Bring back Jake Wood and Jerry Lumpe.

Mickey Lolich, come back in from the Donut Shop.
Denny McLain, come back from prison one last time.

*

Did I say I was going to stop? The rain’s letting up some.
The Orioles are in town with the Robinsons.
The Yanks are in town with Mantle and Maris
and did McLain really groove one to Mantle in ’68?

Just an organ in between innings.
No rock and roll scoreboard hi-jinks razzamatazz.

Ernie, take the mike.
We’ll all pull up a Stroh’s and stay awhile.
We’ll come down from Paradise to catch a foul ball.

Charlie Maxwell, come on back from Paw Paw.
It’s baseball. Nobody’s died. They’re all still alive.

Rust and cracks in memory’s stadium.
It didn’t have to be this way.
Trammell and Whitaker have one more double play
to turn.

Sock It to ’em Tigers.
Bless you, Boys.

I’m squinting into the sun.
All my life I’ve never seen such green.

Jim Daniels is a professor in the creative writing program at Carnegie Mellon University, and has written more than 25 books of poems and stories.

My Most Memorable Day

by Charlie Manuel

“It was a warm day in August when history was made,
And the fans in the boxes were looking for shade.
The bases were loaded, it was the last inning.
From the sound of the crowd, you knew we weren’t winning.

When out of the dugout came No. 3,
The last hope for the Twins it was sure to be.
Now legend tells of Casey at the bat,
But today it was the Killer who tipped his hat.

Cursing and swearing came from the stands,
When Harmon was waved back by Rigney’s hand.
An astonishing look came over the Brew’s face,
When Rigney said, ‘Manuel is taking your place.’

A disbelieving look as he turned around,
Placed his bat in the rack without a sound.
Then from the bench came No. 9,
Who’d been warming the pine for a long, long time.

As he stepped from the dugout came a yell from the stands,
‘You can’t hit Manuel, the Killer’s our man.’
Never before in history had they pinch hit for the Brew,
Especially with some hillbilly hitting .182.

This was a mockery, a dirty rotten shame,
To pinch hit for a man who’s a sure Hall of Fame.
But Charlie heard not a word as he strode to the plate.
He only noticed the crowd’s eyes; they were filled with hate.

‘God, help me this one time,’ kept going through his mind.
‘If I ever get a hit, let it be this time.’
Jim Palmer looked in and thought, ‘This should be a cinch,
I’ll throw three by this rider of the bench.’

Down came the ball with a little white glare,
As Manuel stood watching for he knew it was there.
‘Strike one,’ came the call from the man in blue,
And four pitches later it was 3 and 2.

Now everything rode on the very last pitch.
Would Charlie stay a poor boy or would he suddenly be rich?
The crack of the bat and a long drive to right,
The back of Blair’s uniform is the only thing in sight.

The roar from the stands gave a deafening scream…
Then Charlie fell out of bed, it was only a dream.”

From the Cleveland Indians website 2000.  Copyright c by Charlie Manuel.  Discovered on the Baseball Almanac website.

Posted 7/22/2010

Free Bat Day, Tiger Stadium, 1971

by James Finn Garner

.

Rallies were exciting,
Cheers a clanging roar
When each kid 14 and under
Got a bat at the stadium door.

They pounded on the railings,
The seats, pillars and floor,
Then they pounded on each other–
Bats ain’t given out no more.
.
Posted 6/22/10

Battle of the Bilge

by James Finn Garner
.
Chicago’s Crosstown Classic begins,
Will the Cubs or White Sox deliver?
With the Blackhawks back home with the Cup,
These also-rans look like chopped liver.
.
Posted 6/11/2010

Ace Not So High

by Jim Siergey

.

The ace on the White Sox, Mark Buehrle
Now hurls like T.V.’s Mr. Furley
Goes into his kick
Then throws like he’s sick
And exits the game rather early.

.

Jim Siergey is the author of the Cubs’ sci-fi epic, If They Did It. You can see his illustrations and other work at his website here.

Posted 6/8/10