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May 16th, Washout at Fenway

by John Grey

When was the last time
rains were this Biblical
Any minute now I’m expecting
two of every animal
to traipse in from the outfield
not a bunch of ballplayers
high-tailing it to the dugout
like they’re eking out an infield hit.

And how irreverent the downpour
splashing over the Green Monster,
slapping against the Pesky Pole,
flooding the pitchers’ mound
where Roger struck out twenty,
the base paths where Fisk danced
his winning jig in ‘75,
even the batter’s box where Ted Williams
swung his devilish lumber
on the way to averaging .400.

Still, it’s early and the Sox are
trailing big time.
So it’s a washout courtesy of the baseball gods.
With any luck,
that 0-6 score will drown.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, and Red Sox fan, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review.

 

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Casey Hageman

by Michael Ceraolo

When I was pitching in the minors
I threw the pitch that killed Charles Pinkney
I was very much affected by it:
it showed me a baseball career, and even life itself,
isn’t guaranteed to anyone,
and also led me to fight for what I believed in
I pitched little more than an inning
for the Red Sox in 1912 and was ineffective,
so they sent me out to Jersey City
A couple months later Boston wanted to sell me
to a different minor-league team in Denver,
but said I would have to negotiate a new salary
Denver wouldn’t pay me what I was due under my contract;
I said I would accept the lower salary
only if Boston would make up the difference
They refused to do so, and also refused
to let me buy my release,
after first agreeing to let me do so
I refused to report to Denver and,
with the assistance of the Fraternity,
sued for the balance of the salary due me
It took many years, but I finally won,
by which time, through interest and penalties,
the amount I had originally sought
had grown to a considerably larger sum
And that wasn’t my only fight
I got back to the bigs in 1914
and pitched decently but was traded during the season
The second team refused to pay me
the $240 bonus promised in the contract
I again went to the National Commission
and again they ordered the promised payment
Those two challenges were two strikes against me;
baseball didn’t give me a third strike:
I was never again offered a major-league contract
I don’t begrudge the current players:
having to deal with those who run major-league teams,
they earn whatever they get

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Observation So Far

by Stephen Jones

The American League East
Is a self-eating beast
With no team below .500.
And the way these teams go,
As they consume one another,
It does make me wonder:

When the regular season
Is finally over
And the dust has settled,
It’s possible — it just may be —
That the last one on this list
Of baseball carnivores
May still get a wild card berth.

 

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Teamless

by Ellen Adair

With apologies to Lord Byron

I had a dream that was not all a dream.
Some large misfortune overtook the coasts,
And their tall cities were abandoned, only the blown
Forgotten newsprint scuttling down the street.
Exiled elsewhere, I marveled at the ways
That life persists: baseball was still played
By all the teams based in central states,
Their match-ups limited and circular,
While only ghosts played in my home parks,
Swinging blind at nothing in the moonless air.
Who’s my team now, I thought. No Phillies, Sox,
Or A’s. No Mets. Is it the Diamondbacks?

 

Ellen Adair is an actor, with recurring roles on shows like “The Sinner,” “Homeland,” and “Bull,” and a contributing analyst to the MLB Network show “Off Base.” Their book of poetry, Curtain Speech, is available from Pen & Anvil Press. They also host the podcasts “Take Me In to the Ballgame” and “Love Takes Action,” and draws baseball players by commission.