by Philip Pecorino
The base: a place of welcome respite along the glorious route of transit when home is behind you til home once again. With each venture off base there is the aim, goal and plan: the next bag to reach and then beyond until back to where it all began.
Leave and stop off where there is time to rest til you score the object of the quest. Each beckons to you, made of whatever materials offered in the venue.
Sandlots see torn cardboard pieces serving as the diamond’s pointy places. At other times and spaces, bags or pillows will do.
On dirt field scratched boxes in the soil will serve as base and works of practical art.
Living room? Rocking chair for first, then sofa for second, roam on to third at the love seat til returning to the old shirt where the trip did start.
On the city street, front bumper of the Ford serves first, then on to the manhole cover in the street, a place for defender and runner to meet. Fire pump as third will do great, til returning to the sewer that served as the plate.
There and back and midst trip adventures to be sure: leads to take and tag ups to make. A good jump and then mad dash and slide are made with pick offs to evade. On such a path of an uncertain journey, on base is a nice place to be.
by Vern Morrison
Sung to the tune of “God Bless America”:
Man with a glove
You’re a catcher
And I betcha
You’re the man Red Sox fans love to love!
From the fenways
To the heartland
And the places in between
You sure are keen!
You sure are keen!
By Stuart Shea
When they’re still playing ball
But your team has gone home,
A part of you just wants
The winter to come.
by Michael X. Ferraro
Bumper to bumper on the way home,
October baseball on the AM waves.
The guys in the booth are nattering
and then one allows, “Hee-ere’s the pitch.”
In the pregnant pause, a log is split
on my radio, a violent snap
of sound, like the dude from Green Day
just pulverized his snare. Or maybe
one of those “Where The Wild Things” saw red
and razed a roof. Either way, that pure
noise story-tells better than Scully.
Detroit’s sigh is broadcast nation-wide.
We are no longer wedged in traffic,
because bat met ball met microphone
and Marconi trots with Napoli.
by John M.
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to swing away
While those around you walked
They crawled out of the woodwork
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the homer porch
And they made you change your game
And it seems to me you swung your bat
Like blowing out a candle in the wind
Never knowing what to swing at
When the pitch came in
And I would have liked to have known you
But I was just a fan
Your average burned out long before
You became an also-ran
This post first appeared in the comments at It Is High, It Is Far, It is … Caught.