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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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A Ballad of Baseball Burdens

by Franklin Pierce Adams

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away
.   Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
Else fandom shouteth: “Who said you could play?
.   Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!”
.   Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job.
Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom’s ire
.   Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.

The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.
.   Or in or out, or haply up or down,
To puzzle him that standeth by the plate,
.   To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown:
.   Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown,
So pitch that every man can but admire
.   And offer you the freedom of the town –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.

The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds!
.   The tumult and the shouting from the throats
Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds
.   Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats.
.   A mighty cheer that possibly denotes
That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire;
.   Or, as H. James would say, We’ve got their goats –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.

The burden of a pennant. O the hope,
.   The tenuous hope, the hope that’s half a fear,
The lengthy season and the boundless dope,
.   And the bromidic, “Wait until next year.”
.   O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,
O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher
.   That next October it shall flutter here:
This is the end of every fan’s desire.

ENVOY

Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase
.   Be that to which most fondly we aspire!
For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race –
.   THIS is the end of every fan’s desire.

 

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Bill Veeck

by Michael Ceraolo

I don’t think I was a genius
by any objective measurement,
but it wasn’t hard to seem like one
compared to most of the other owners,
who considered attendance at the games
to be the fans’ religious obligation
My treating baseball as a business
that had to attract its customers
with a good product and fun at the park
was derided as heresy
(though many of my ideas were soon copied)
And that wasn’t their only resort to mystical nonsense:
they first fought, and then severely limited, night games
Just imagine:
running a business whose hours of operation
(set by you)
preclude the vast majority of customers
from patronizing your business.