For more on Matt’s music, check out his website: MattWesselMusic.com.
Pastime
by Casey Hannan
At a baseball game, so high up
the birds seem bigger than the players,
bigger than the crowned lion mascot,
and bigger even, than my expectations,
because, you see, I didn’t root, root, root,
for anyone. The Royals sucked and the
Rangers were visitors, so it was
heresy to cheer when they won, which
I think they did, though it’s hard to
remember when all I see, looking back
through the heat, hazy like it is in a
too hot car, is a crowd of people all
trying not to fling themselves onto
the field, so green you could swim
in it, to cool down to the most basic
part of the experience: American History
and the obligation spun from those pages.
For more of Casey’s poetry, check out his blog, Poetry, DUH.
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Posted 8/4/2009
Bunt
by Doug Fahrendorff
Don’t tip your hand too soon
Like poker deception is key
The infield deep
Confident you’re swinging away
Push the ball
To the right side
Past the pitcher
Out of the box
Fast
Safe!
Published 7/24/09
Making the Call
By Stuart Shea
Is it worse when an umpire blows a call
Or when a player–in righteous anger–makes a mockery of it all?
It’s hard to support bad umpiring work
But who wants to watch some player act like a jerk?
Why don’t we even it out.
Let’s increase fan applause-o.
Let’s make umpiring-baiting legal
And let plate umpires call batters out like Enrico Palazzo!
Published 7/20/09
The Sidearm Sinker
by Jonathan Eig
My daughter grabs the pink plastic bat
And steps up to the chalk-drawn plate.
Who am I to stop her if she wants to hit lefty?
Let’s see what you’ve got, I say to myself.
The kid’s maybe three or four and
I’m maybe forty-three.
I lean in and pretend to look for the signs.
She squeezes the bat and grimaces
Like Annie in the scene where she rescues Sandy from bullies.
Then she takes a couple of practice swings.
I take my time.
“Come on, Meat!” she yells.
So I stick my fingertips in two of the holes in the ball
And go with the sidearm sinker
That used to get my brother every time.
Filthy stuff, absolutely filthy.
She misses so badly that
I think she’s going to cry,
But she doesn’t.
She just cocks her head, looks up at me,
And says, ““That’s one, old-timer.”
Published 7/5/09
Jonathan Eig is the author of Opening Day: The story of Jackie Robinson’s First Season and Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig. You can read more about him, and his upcoming book, Get Capone!, here.