Mid-Spring Beat Up

by James Finn Garner

Can our boy Judge come out to play?
At noon our foursome tees up.
Sorry, fellas, not today,
He’s sorta mid-spring beat up.

That man Aaron is one hunk of thirst,
The girls at the club wanna meet up.
No no, ladies, training comes first,
He’s a bit mid-spring beat up.

At the hotel, the maids are asking,
Can Judge ever put the seat up?
Bending over? That’s multitasking
For someone mid-spring beat up.

Should I renew my season seats,
Watch my savings get eat up?
Baseball gives your pains surcease
‘Til you get mid-spring beat up.

 

Outside the Green Room

by Peter G. Mladinic

In passing, they have words
that ruffle feathers.
Yogi, Whitey, and Mickey don’t like
Tennessee’s looks,
his Chesterfield smoldering in a holder,
the carnation in his lapel.

Tennessee’s no fan of home plate,
the outfield,
the mound Whitey’s cleats kick dirt from
before the curve leaves his hand.
Will it be low and side,
a strike?

The three Yankees have been on the air.
Jack Parr
asked good questions.
Tennessee’s about to go on,
but here’s this scuffle
with players

who know nothing of his Blanche,
the always
of her famous line
about kindness. Go to blazes, he says.
They walk away, thinking him good
with words, not worth their time.

Peter Mladinic’s most recent book of poems, Voices from the Past, is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

AL East 2023 Spring Training Forecast Haiku

by Stuart Shea

Baltimore Orioles
July: Orioles
Will refuse to migrate south,
Seeking fall colors.

Boston Red Sox
Yes, every franchise
Is an Evil Empire now.
Game is in its Fall.

New York Yankees
Can the potential
Of overpowering bats
Overpower their age?

Tampa Bay Rays
Lesson of the old:
It takes a genius chef to
Make soup out of straw.

Toronto Blue Jays
An exhaustive search!
Team’s new radio guy is
The TV guy’s son.

 

Mantle and Mays

by Peter G. Mladinic

If I could touch what touches everything,
if I could talk to the animals, if I could
remember the Bronx of 1953 as well as you,
the Polo Grounds would be my memory, one
we shared, you in stands, the Say Hey Kid
in center, across the river, in center Mick.
His glove like Willie’s catches the high pop.

I think of base paths, a batter’s box, a dash
third to home. Mantle for speed, power,
Mays for all-around everything in the Polo
Grounds, you remember sitting in stands
and I vaguely seeing Mantle but more so
an old man’s eye bloodied by a line drive
hit off, say, Brooks Robinson’s bat that day

the Yanks hosted Baltimore, Mick figurine-
small way out in center, but step into
the batter’s box, cousin, as the Mick did
and the Say Hey Kid, to touch the width
and breadth of what touches all, everything.
New York at Mantle’s fingertips, New York
in the pocket of the glove of a kid, Willie

Mays from cotton-field Alabama, Mick
from dustbowl Oklahoma, and you from
greenery of Dumont, the country it was
then, to ride in a Buick across the GW,
step into shadows tall brick walls, courtyard
guarded by stone lions and gargoyles
on ledges and with strength of your eight

year old arms open thick, black-glossed
double doors, high on a hill. So many
cobbled hills, down to the wide Concourse,
sprawl of shops on Fordham, canopies,
the RKO marquee, all the while brick walls
burnished red, brown, light tan of five-,
six-story buildings. The hand sets a potted

begonia on a fire escape, no more than dust
today, that in ‘53 when baseball was king,
joined its other hand to clap a storm
for Mays or Mantle. Look at the tiny curls
of blond hairs on his powerful forearm!
A child might have said to himself to herself,
I love Mickey Mantle, or Willie knocks it

out of the park for me, every time. To come
from whatever he was seeing, cotton under
a big sky, Stars Fell on Alabama, uphill,
and in broad light feel something like God’s
hand (if I could touch what touches
everything) on his shoulder and hear a voice
say Willie, or Mick, this is yours, all of it.

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is due out in November 2023 from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

 

The Baseball Wars

by Stephen Jones

A hundred and sixty-two battles during the season
Fought, won or lost on stadium fields of green and dirt —
And where is my team now? It had so much promise
Last April, when everything was new and young,
And then it went to war. The summer-long campaign
Was rough, more games were lost than won —
And now it’s October. The stadium seats are empty,
The crack of the bat is gone, and only the ghosts of
“What if” whisper in the empty tunnels and locker room.