by Terry Cashman
Nap Lajoie
by Michael Ceraolo
I once was quoted as saying
no one gives you anything in baseball,
but that isn’t correct
Morgan Murphy gave me and other Phillies many hits
when he stole signs from the stands
and relayed them to a coacher through a buzzer system,
and the coacher then relayed them to us
And the St. Louis Browns gave me half-a-dozen bunt hits
during a doubleheader to end the 1901 season,
enabling me to win the batting title and a car
I took those gifts without apology,
though I often wished that the Browns
would have given us the ’08 pennant instead
Christmas in September
On the 19th of September,
Ohtani gave to me…
10 RBIs
6 total hits
5 extra bases
4 runs scored
3 home runs
2 stolen bases
1 playoff berth
And the founding the 50-50 Club!
Mr. 51-51
by Fred Lovato
Historic milestone
proof positive that Shohei’s
not from this planet
Clemente’s Throw
by Ron Halvorson
All the OG sluggers the Old Fans watched play at Candlestick Park–
Miracle Mays, Mighty McCovey, Cyclone Cepeda, Uppercut Evans, Angry Jack Clark, King Kong Kingman, Redneck Jeff Kent, Mayhem Matt Williams,
and the Millennial Enigma himself—Titanic Barry Bonds!
But all those star shots launched into the infamous Candlestick jet stream
pale in comparison to the atomic arm displayed by visiting Pirate Roberto Clemente in 1968.
Old Fan still visualizes that cold, windy summer night,
watching Clemente dashing for, scooping up the bouncing baseball,
Negotiating the warning track deep in right-center field.
Clemente as whirling dervish spinning,
Athletic possession,
hardwired into baseball poetry,
like a Rumi poem divinely inspired.
Clemente’s arm now dispossessed from the body,
Superpower unleashed,
Following through like an Olympian hammer thrower.
Then the baseball rose into the fluorescent lights,
Gaining altitude,
Higher than a wicked drive by McCovey,
Now level with the disbelieving eyes of Old Fan in the upper deck behind home plate.
Who needs a cut-off man?
Not Clemente.
The majestic arc,
Seemingly suspended in the ethos,
slowly descended,
as the lumbering Giant runner rounded third base.
Into the waiting big paws of the Pirate catcher,
Who stood nonchalantly on top of home plate,
Clemente’s mighty heave softly fell.
The dead duck Giant runner?
He just stopped,
Staring in disbelief,
As the laughing catcher tagged him out.
So wax poetic about Clemente’s throws,
All you talking heads on the radio,
Who wish you saw him play.
Well, that foggy night at Candlestick,
During the summer of love in iconic San Francisco–
It ain’t on the internet.
That throw was visceral, not virtual–
You had to be there,
Amid the blowing hot dog wrappers and wafting cannabis smoke.
We were there, and you weren’t—
Old fans, real eyes,
Witnessing the Great Clemente live.
Ron Halvorson is a freelance writer and lifelong San Francisco Giants fan who went to his first game at windy Candlestick Park in the early 1960s.