Posted 6/12/2009
Near Cutdown Day
By Stuart Shea
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
You’re 36
You’ve got one bad knee
And your last two-year contract
Ended in 2003.
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
You’re not at home
While your children grow
Your wife’s been waiting
And she deserves to know.
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
If you’re the last cut,
Have you had your fill?
Or will you take that deal
In Louisville?
Whatcha gonna do
If you don’t make the team?
Published 6/8/2009
Baseball Dreams
by Charles Ghigna
In memory of Jack Marsh,
second baseman, Yale University, 1943
Before the bayonet replaced the bat,
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;
his spikes anchored into the August clay,
his eyes set deep against the setting sun.
The scouts all knew his numbers well,
had studied his sure hands that flew
like hungry gulls above the grass;
but Uncle Sam had scouted too,
had chosen first the team to play
the season’s final game of ’44,
had issued him another uniform
to wear into the face of winter moon
that shone upon a snowy plain,
where players played a deadly game,
where strikes were thrown with each grenade,
and high pitched echoes linger still.
Beyond the burned-out foreign fields
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,
young Jack Marsh is rounding third
and sliding, sliding safely home.
.
Charles Ghigna is the award-winning author of more than 40 volumes of poetry for children and adults, including Score: 50 Poems to Motivate and Inspire. Find out more at his website, Father Goose.
Posted 5/26/2009
Triumph of the Willis
by James Finn Garner
It brightens baseball’s heart, Dontrelle,
To have you back and pitching well.
Your fastball cutting like a knife,
Endangering the catcher’s life,
Your off-speed floating up and down,
Your hat too big like Charlie Brown’s.
Your rookie year is long behind–
Was that the thing that messed your mind?
We all get old, last time I checked.
That doesn’t mean your life is wrecked.
You’ve got the stuff, now find the guile,
And you’ll be here a good long while.
.
Posted 5/20/2009
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