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The Ghost Seats of Yankee Stadium

by James Finn Garner

I was warmly surprised

That the new Yankee Stadium

Has all those spare seats

(And good ones, too!)

For the ghosts of all the fans

In the Yankee Universe who never made it there:

The Bowery Bum who could never buy a ticket,

The upstate farmer who could never spare time,

The soldier who fought alongside Joltin’ Joe and never made it back,

The street kid who played catch with junk and never had a chance, at anything.

 

I bet a Bombers game on the radio

Was sometimes a cooling touch of silk that eased their minds,

And Yankee Stadium unseen was

A green heaven they didn’t know they wished for.

 

Now they’re behind home plate,

Feet up, leaning back,

Making good use of the space.

Here’s to them,

And to the good-hearted Yankees.

 

Posted 6/4/2009

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Cheering the Tigers in Minnesota

by James Motz

What’s this – a dome? This field is a joke!
Everything all fake, bunch of mirrors and smoke.
Where’s the blue skies and warm sunny feelings
Instead of blue plastic, “Baggies” – a ceiling?!

Neck twisted left for eight innings to see
The man in gray swing and miss for strike three!
You call that working the count? Must I
Suffer the insult of cheering that guy?!

The whole thing unfolds, painful to watch.
First a single, a double, couple of walks.
The lead for our team, thought to be safe
Now just about gone – and I’m outta faith.

The fan to my right stands up and cheers,
He’s awfully close to our un-empty beers,
But how can he resist from rubbing it in?
The mighty Tigers have a crappy bullpen!

“Break out the brooms!” He takes up the shout.
Whole lousy place ready, there’s really no doubt…
There! Crede kills us again, no surprise.
Every time, losing to a team I despise.

Cramped in my seat, I glower. “This sucks!”
Says my friend who spent over sixty bucks
To drive from Wisconsin to watch them win.
Now he goes home disappointed again.

Another lead blown, and all the fans scream,
And in my new town, down goes my old team.
The teeth are grit hard, tears beg to be wept,
My beloved Detroit Tigers got swept.

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Posted 6/2/2009

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Let’s Watch Two!

by Todd Herges

Bright dawn blue sky
Cubbies play at 1:05.

Dad, Mom, sons, daughter
Head like lambs unto the slaughter..

Ride aboard the red line El,
Hope that Z will throw it well.

See the green, the grass, the board,
Hope Dad’s cash he will not hoard.

See the wall, the bricks, the ivy,
Hope that Z K’s Junior Spivey.

Smell the stale beer, puke, and links
D Lee’s sitting – Dad’s heart sinks.

But then Aramis hits a double,
Spoils the no-no, causes trouble.

Up in the booth a new guest sings
But not like Harry’s echoed rings.

One son for extra innings thanks
This day was one for Ernie Banks.

As Holly wraps it up so well,
The family knows the day’s been swell.

Then back aboard the loud red train
To the hotel – it looks like rain.

Glad it held off for these few hours,
Maybe thanks to higher powers,

Hack and Harry and Chance and Brown
Stand in the clouds and look straight down

Into the green grass lined by Waveland,
Sheffield, Addison – Chicago’s Graceland.

They held back rain, they hold back tears,
Been over a goddamn hundred years.

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Posted 5/28/2009

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A Perfect Game

by Gregory K.

.
Tonight we’re at a baseball game:
The minors (double A).
But I don’t care! it’s me and Dad –
My siblings stayed away!
My soda couldn’t be more flat.
My Cracker Jacks taste old.
The peanut vendor never came.
My hot dog caught a cold.
But Dad and I are having fun.
In fact, it’s quite a blast.
We’re talking, laughing, telling tales
As innings move on past.
He tells my why he loves the game,
Each hit, each out, each run.
I tell him why I don’t like math.
He says, “Like Dad, like son.”
I tell him that I had a crush,
How weak it made my knees.
He tells me how he met my mom
And when to try a squeeze.
I ask about a stolen base
And why folks like to dance.
He tells me tales of baseball greats
And all about romance.
Dreams, home runs, and silly jokes –
They all come up, and more.
Tonight we’re at a baseball game…
And we’re not keeping score.

Gregory K.  is a screenwriter, poet, and volunteer school librarian.  You can check out more of his work at http://gottabook.blogspot.com.

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Posted 5/22/2009

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On Not Being Able to Say Aloud That WALKS KILL YOU

by Todd Herges

A dozen young boys,
caps colored alike,
dream diamond greatness
and shiny steel spikes.

But theirs are mere rubber,
no hair under arms.
They play just for love
and to earn coach’s charm.

Pitching is paramount.
Throwing strikes is the key.
Walks always kill,
issue two and you’ll see.

Don’t aim or you’ll miss,
hear the fat lady’s song.
The leash will be short,
the ump’s sweat stains grow long.

But these hairless boys
with soft cleats, fragile confidence,
hear the boos amid boosts,
and need upbeat assurance.

So I pick a distraction,
my disgust notwithstanding,
and I say:  “Nothin’ hurt,
mind your foot where it’s landing.”

.

Posted 5/19/2009