From the YouTube poster: “Gospel singer from the 50′s that switched to R&B music but never received the recognition she deserved on earth. She wrote this song and another popular song entitled, “Operator”.”  You can find out more about her on Wikipedia.

Yesterday we played, we played baseball
the pitcher pitched and I whacked the ball
it flew over Maine
and a Japanese train
it flew over a polar ice cap
it was seen by some English chaps
some soldiers saw it in Afghanistan
and as it flew it learned Uzbekistan
it flew over the Great Barrier Reef
in North Dakota it sampled some beef
but just as it landed in Moscow
the umpire called it  foul

Owen P. is a fifth-grade student in Chicago.

Rule #1
Back before Harry Caray, Santo, and Hughes
The bleachers held young actors paying their dues.
But Belushi and Murray knew Rule Number 1:
Remember, always, there’s a game going on.

Rule #2
Buy a scorecard, keep score, and follow along.
If you don’t know how, there’s an app on your phone.
Sit your butt down when you hear, “Down in front!”
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #3
Don’t go to get nachos when a runner’s on base.
Ignore your full bladder, that babe you might chase.
Just get up between innings or when a pitcher is gone.
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #4
Don’t sit back of home plate and gab on your phone.
When you show up on TV, you’ll look like a clown.
Get back to your scorecard; you might miss a home run.
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #5
The game lasts nine innings, don’t have any doubt.
Don’t stand for the pitcher until the last out.
Standing adds drama that doesn’t belong,
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

Rule #6
Remember that baseball’s the reason you came,
There’re plenty of sports bars for after the game.
No one cares how much cash you paid your salon,
Remember Rule Number 1: there’s a game going on.

The wife-and-husband team of Becky Binks and Cary Donham intrepidly support the Cubs from the far South Side enclave of Beverly.

Baseball’s Hall of Fame hails a time-honored game,
That cannot be settled by clock.
Inning after inning, no team is winning,
I’d opt not to buy tickets or stock.

If one is so clever, a game can last forever,
A tie score all knotted at zip.
Ruth started the line-up, need new hitters to sign up,
Like Bonds who can make a round trip.

But we may never survive to see a line drive,
For me the game just drives me bonkers.
Be it Brooklyn or Yanks, if you ask me, “No thanks!”
The Bronx just bombed out, on to Yonkers!

This time-worn tradition should be sent to perdition,
The outcome has outlasted my strength.
Would there be sudden death? Please don’t hold your breath,
This game of ages is just so by its length!

Say “Hi” to “The Kid”

who never missed a beat/bat
of enthusiasm & protocol

even when his locker room
teammates were elsewhere

who believed baseball is a game
not of dollars & nonsense

who never cursed ‘cept once
in Game 6 the ’86 World Series

when on first base he swore
“I will not lose this damn game”

heart owning the whole thing
& who maintained a standard

beyond “behind home plate”
& something we could all learn from

The batter stepped up to the plate
We were hoping it wasn’t too late
A home run we needed
So we all cheered and pleaded
Would this victory be left up to fate?

The first pitch the ump called a ball
The next pitch was fouled off the wall
The third pitch went high
Fourth prompted a sigh
As strike two was the umpire’s call!

The next pitch was called ball three
Then the crowd shouted with glee
As the last pitch soared far
And hit a parked car
Giving out team the victory!

In the beginning there was silence
Complete and deafening
Enough for a quiet cliché about a pin dropping
The kind of silence only a home crowd can achieve
A silent empty air
created by dashed anticipations and disappointments too numerous

There was nothing in the stillness
to suggest an end to the resolve to wait another day
There was nothing but more of the same
Futility ruled as the first two men trudged from dugout to on-deck to plate

The first was out without a twitch of recognition
Watching as three straight zipped past
The second flailed at three more
But the stitched leather need not fear
as it found safe haven in the mitt

Next up

Sensing the final indignity and the end of the day’s misery
one lone fan began to clap
Slowly, what was left of the crowd began to laugh and clap along
A rhythm built that had been missing throughout
Even the Ump smiled
understanding the need

No one wants to be the last out but someone must
No one can step into the box with doubtful thoughts and survive
The confrontation at hand
although shared by many on and off the field
is in a sense one-on-one
And one will fail

It seemed as though the man on the mound was in control
Had a sure thing in the bag
and would soon have a refreshing shower and steak dinner
It seemed the man at bat was behind in the count before the first pitch

But things happen
Things happen in a subtle way and seem not to matter
One gets away and just nips the uniform

Man on first

The next with a powerful swing
manages to barely get bat on ball
and owes lady luck a big kiss for his “swinging bunt”

Men on first and second

Shake it off
No harm done
Get the next guy and go home
Quickly there are two strikes

The diehards who continued whooping
are standing and stomping
sensing the possibility of the unreal
Eliminate the impossible and the unbelievable can be true

The next pitch gets in his kitchen
The bat is shattered – splintered
Shards flying every which way
as the ball brazenly bloops just out of reach
from the outstretched infielder
The hard charging outfielder

Bases loaded

Players live for this moment
Down by three
Bottom of the ninth
Two outs
Winning run at the plate
A childhood dream of Grand proportions

A visit to the mound just for cool and concentration
It’s not like anything has been hit hard
or his stuff has disappeared
Just a few flukes
He’s the ace

The right man is up for the job
An RBI machine when it counts
Power to all fields

He knows what to look for and gets it
Smooth, quick, bat speed a blur
The “Crack” says it all

As the ball reaches the fences
the man in right times his leap
and the Umpire gets in position

The stands are on their feet
as time stands still
in anticipation of a moment to remember

A glove leans over and snatches
the ball in flight
The defender comes up empty
On and off the field
an eruption of pent up emotion

A game of beauty can leave
both victor and vanquished
stunned

Splendor on the grass?
Today’s faithful will never know

Fan interference
Batter out
Game over

In the Big Inning there was

[SILENCE] 

According to family legend, Art Gomez was conceived in a Chicago hotel room when his father had a tryout with the Cubs. A devoted Mariners fan, Art reads his poems in the Seattle area as a member of PoetsWest and Seattle Free Lances. His poems have appeared in Spindrift, Minotaur Press, Poetic Matrix, Seattle Muse, and Poets Against War, and on KSER 90.7 FM (Independent Public Radio).

Anytime baseball happens
one’s mind is relieved

like dreams sometimes relaxed

by hardball & glove
by bat & smack

CHICAGO CUBS
Behold the savior!
He slouches toward Wrigleyville
And shops at J. Crew.

CINCINNATI REDS
Scott’s Rolen along
At least as much as one “rolls”
On two rusty wheels.

HOUSTON ASTROS
In a great big barn
The inhabitants will smell…
25 heifers

MILWAUKEE BREWERS
The abdication
Means the Milwaukee lineup
Will welcome the Mat.

PITTSBURGH PIRATES
Pretty park, green grass,
Lovely statue, tasty beer,
Clint Barmes at short

ST. LOUIS CARDINALS
Elders leave the grounds,
Leaving the young ones to play
The eternal game.

Connor and Josh performing their poem “Baseball” at The Cantab Lounge in Boston, Mass., at The National Poetry Slam in 2011. They were representing The Loser Slam venue from New Jersey.