by Fred Lovato
Eight post-season games
an oscillation between
delight and torment
Radio
by Tom LaGasse
All baseball season
night after night
I listen
And here’s the pitch . . .
Who wins or loses
no longer matters
despite what
The most rabid
fans and sports
radio hosts tell me.
I try to pay
attention to
the spaciousness:
The way
each moment opens
green
Like the smell
of freshly
mowed grass.
Often, I get lost
remembering who taught
me how to love the game:
Backyard catch
sandlot games
grandfather, father
uncles, cousins,
friends, teammates.
We know the best
hitters fail more often
than they succeed
At their craft.
I, as a listener,
am no different
On deck is . . .
I look ahead to
warmer weather,
an upcoming game
When I will be
on vacation,
the World Series.
The crack of the bat
always returns me
to the beauty
Of players in motion,
of fans living and dying,
and the open field of green.
Tom lives in Connecticut, the battleground state split between Red Sox and Yankee fans. His baseball short stories have appeared in The Feminine Collective and Turnstyle: The SABR Journal of Baseball Arts.
Roberto Clemente
by Michael Ceraolo
I want to see if the poet
is going to have me speak in dialect
as the sportswriters of my day did;
I spoke English better than they
spoke another language, and sometimes
even better than they spoke English
The great thing about baseball
is that your ability speaks for itself,
it’s not dependent on how someone else
chooses to portray you
And it also allowed me to do things
for other people, one of our reasons for being
September Baseball (Yankees vs Red Sox)
by Stephen Jones
You know where your team will be, come postseason,
Whether it’s one step above, or in the division cellar:
Your play-by-play guy and your color commentator
Are already talking about next year’s starting rotation.
An Ode To Harry
by Rick Kaempfer
The poem by Franklin P. Adams definitely enhanced
The Hall of Fame chances of Tinker, Evers & Chance,
But the other name in that infield has been lost to time
Just because Harry Steinfeldt’s name didn’t rhyme.
He hit for more power, he drove in more runs,
He made fewer errors, and when the game was to be won,
They leaned on Harry Steinfeldt, the World Series MVP,
Though his name was a mouthful, depriving immortality.
Reprinted from Rick’s book, EveryCubEver (2nd edition, Eckhartz Press).