by James Finn Garner
In honor of the first game at the original Yankee Stadium.
A century ago, in the debuth
Of his eponymous stadium, Ruth
Hit the inaugural tater,
Auguring the later
Parade of glory under that roof.
The Tigers (for William Blake and Willie Hernández)
by Ron Riekki
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, (due to all the stadium lights)
In the forests of the night; (as that’s what turf grass looks like)
What immortal hand or eye, (like Kaline, Al, and Cobb, Ty)
Could frame they fearful symmetry? (but Fleer and Topps will always try)
In the distant deeps and skies of Palmer,
I’d play baseball to keep me calmer
and it was the same with my father,
he was fatherless, except on the diamond,
where coaches turned us into pitchers and linemen
and point guards and goalies in a town of mining,
where we’d forget about hematite and iron ore
in the bliss of 1945 and 1984,
and 1935 and 1968,
the years where all we did was celebrate,
like both the sky and our insides were bright as uranium
and in 2022, as a vet, they honored me at the stadium
and Detroit Tigers, you are always burning bright
in the forests of the night
and I held my hand to my heart that night
where I got to feel what being honored is like.
Thank you, Detroit Tigers.
Thank you.
Ron Riekki’s books include Blood/Not Blood Then the Gates (Middle West Press), My Ancestors are Reindeer Herders and I Am Melting in Extinction (Apprentice House Press), Posttraumatic (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle), and U.P. (Ghost Road Press). Right now, Riekki’s listening to Mychael Danna’s “It’s a Process” from the Moneyball film score.
Time is Money, Part CCLXXVII
by Jim Siergey
Originally printed in the Chicago Baseball Magazine, March 30, 2023.
Baseball Before the Apocalypse
by Leah Mueller
Cluster of bodies, soap
bubbles at a Cubs game:
1983, our bicycles shackled
to poles outside, entwined in
a metal snare. To saw through
tempered steel would
give thieves the pick of several.
We smuggled imported
beer in white bottles, eight
bucks a pack, and salads
in sturdy plastic containers
from the Bread Shop.
Bleacher seats three dollars,
nicknamed the “Animal Section.”
No one at the entry gate
ever checked for weapons.
We were good to go, unless
bottles protruded from the
sides of our backpacks,
or we spilled marijuana
on the sidewalk by mistake
as we entered Wrigley Field.
A friend once said,
“If you were one of the lucky
people who got to change
the scoreboard by hand, you’d
be so fucking cool by default.”
We drank beer, passed
joints, ate salads, and
when the game was over,
we took our trash home
and disposed of it properly.
We were good citizens.
No one patted our thighs,
thrust their hands up our shirts,
groped under the waistbands of
our shorts, searching for explosives.
No one checked our health records
for evidence of compliance.
It was just a goddamned Cubs game,
a few 23-year-old kids,
and a summer that would end
like all the others after.
Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her new book, The Destruction of Angels (Anxiety Press) was published in October 2022. She is a 2023 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” appears in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press’ “Best Small Fictions” anthology. www.leahmueller.org
February/March
by Fred Lovato
Spring training action
while, without doubt, meaningless
fun nevertheless