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The Bookkeepers Talk Baseball

by Jim Daniels

Betsy says a friend of hers
went to high school with Kirk Gibson
and that he was stuck up even then.

Debbie says Frank is taking her
to one of those things
where they play two games in one day.
What’s it called, a double bubble?
She makes a face: I can hardly stand one game
much less two.

Jack, the burly security guard says
it’s too damn boring. Everybody
standing around picking their asses.

I sit at my desk
flipping through accounts, pulling overdrafts.
My ass squirms in padded comfort
longing for the bleacher’s hard bench.

Arnold says he likes it better
on tv. Why go to the ballpark,
he asks, and deal with the traffic
and the crowds?

Better on tv?
Get yer red hots heah!
Coke! Iiiiiiice Cooooold Coke!
Crack of bat on ball. Smell
of stale cigars and spilled beer.
Seventh inning stretch.
Cold beer in the sun.

Cold beer in the sun.
I bang my seat
to start up a rally.

Jim Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University.  His newest story collection, TRIGGER MAN: More Tales of the Motor City, is now available, and can be ordered from Amazon here.

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…and the Living is Easy

by Edmund Conti

The Sox are our team, says the Bahd,
Plus the students who haunt Hahvahd Yahd.
Just enjoy if you wish
This great summery dish.
By autumn, you know, we’ll get scrod.

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What is Baseball?

by Eddie Gold

Baseball is for all, regardless of religion or race,
And it’s the Babe blasting one into outer space.

It’s the banker sitting next to the guy without a job,
And it’s the base-stealing exploits of Tyrus R. Cobb.

It’s the vendors hawking scorecards, peanuts and ale,
And it’s Landis, the Czar, with his chin on the rail.

It’s pilots like Huggins, Mack, and Old Case,
And it’s a boner by Merkle, who skipped second base.

It’s Billy Sunday, from sinner to saint,
And it’s Willie Keeler, who hit where they ain’t.

It’s writers like Lardner, Rice and Runyon,
And its Wagner at bat, resembling Paul Bunyan,

It’s a crestfallen guy called Shoeless Joe,
And it’s the kid who pleaded, “Say it ain’t so.”

It’s opening day with the President in the park,
And it’s a homer by Hartnett, hit in the dark.

It’s nicknames like Dizzy and Dazzy, Pee Wee and Pants,
And it’s a double play by Tinker to Evers to Chance.

It’s the ornery cussing of Muggsy McGraw,
And the quiet temperance of Vernon Law.

It’s the pursuit of an asterisk by Mantle and Maris,
And it’s the Mats’ Boy Wonders, Cronin and Harris.

It’s the Giants Mathewson, who seldom would lose,
And it’s Taylor Spink and The Sporting News.

It’s the prayers for a pennant by a Brooklyn parson,
And a Series no-hitter by a guy named Larsen.

It’s the girl in the bleachers acquiring a tan,
And the hula-wiggle stance of Stan the Man.

It’s the training camps and the coming of spring,
And it’s Mr. Roberts, the first Robin of fling.

It’s the aroma of hot dogs, plain or kosher,
And it’s umpire-baiting by Leo Durocher.

It’s the blast by Thomson, with its thrills galore,
And it’s the 26-inning duel of Oeschger and Cadore.

It’s the pennant winner and the team in the cellar,
And it’s the blazing fastball of Bobby Feller.

It’s Hornsby, the Rajah, so brazen and bold,
And it’s Billy Martin, still knocking `em cold.

It’s Doubleday, Cooperstown and the Hall of Fame,
And it’s the band playing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.”

It’s the little leaguer and the kids at stick ball,
It’s rain checks, bubblegum cards, and most of all…

It’s America. Yes, BASEBALL IS AMERICA.

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The House That Ruth Ate

by Hilary Barta

To the bleachers a finger was pointed
With a homer the Babe was anointed
.    The fat patron saint
.    of a lack of restraint
His appetite came double-jointed.

.

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The Sacred Room: Yankee Stadium

by Ed Ryterband

My first Yankee game dad is taking us
I’m full of quiverings and pictures
About Mantle, Berra, Ford and
Suddenly we turn a corner in the Bronx
The giant stadium is looming over us
Vendors hawking banners, hats and badges
I’m drooling over all the souvenirs.

Dad tugs me through a turnstile
Then we join the flow streaming through our gate
One of many in the endless curving wall of Yankee Stadium
A hundred voices rumble echoing inside a tunnel,
Up a ramp and then another ramp
My skinny legs aching with impatience
Up another flight of steps
At last out into the open space
The playing field, the neatest grass and careful dirt and endless seats,
More people than I ever saw.
I gape at them, float above myself

A roar jolts me to attention
The Yankees poring from the dugout
A stream of heroes,
Spreading confident to their appointed places
Hats on hearts they face the flag
The anthem squawks
The game begins at last
I stand and sit and stand again
The plays move slow,
I savor them like ice cream.
Another wish fulfilled a boiled hotdog
Strangers hands pass it on to me
Draped in yellow mustard
I sniff it close, steaming still
My first bite tangy on my lips and tongue.
Washed down with coke and ice cubes for my chewing
Dessert: fresh peanuts
Shells collecting, covering my feet
My breath gets raw and stinky
So dad tells me
I don’t care
What I remember
Mantle hits a homer that never seems to end
The roar is deafening and wonderful,
Carries me into the sky
I hope the game will never end
It does
I sleep the whole way home.