Posted on

The Tools of Ignorance

by Tom Clark

facing out
I set the target
while everyone else
is looking in
I am the field commander
of signals and signs
my mitt hand swollen
from 100 mile per hour fastballs
my knees creaking
from 10,000 squats per season
I am Yogi, Pudge, Campy
I am the wall, the backstop, the glue
my head in a cage
controlling the game
controlling the flow
every situation
every moment in time
the pitcher is a wild horse
I soothe him
squat down in the dirt
I am the target
I know the umpires
I can fool them
sometimes with my mind
my right arm is a rifle
my eyes laser beams
I know when the runner is going
I will gun him down
I sweet talk the hitters
get inside their heads
I can fool them too
most times
they are putty in my hands
I own the plate
it is mine
I have studied every nuance
of this game
since I was nine years old
since the very first time I donned
the tools of ignorance

 

Posted on

Shakespearean Baseball Sonnet #15

by Michael Ceraolo

When I consider every game that’s played
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
No matter where such moment is displayed,
No matter the media who comment,
And I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered or jeered under any and all skies,
Vaunt their youthful sap, only to decrease,
Eventually left with mere memories.
Try not to think of this inconstant stay
Of vigor with less than complete delight,
Though wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Forget the war with Time we all must lose,
And make lasting your fame from today’s news.

 

Posted on

Yankees 6, Houston 2

by Stephen Jones

So many new faces on the Yankee roster —
Triple A-ers getting fan attention —
And it felt like April, not September,
On a warm Friday night in Houston.

It was nice, for just a moment, to forget
Where the Pinstripe season has gone this year
And instead to relish the moment
When new faces might be the Yankee future.

 

Posted on

Long Out

by Van

What I remember the most– is the silence,
a white orb in a blue sky,
me silently digging across the green grass–
a stretch beyond reach–
the ball striking my glove’s pocket.
Perhaps a tumble. Perhaps not.
Looking into third–
the coaches hands up!
You’re out,
and the runner
stopping,
stunned,
looking at me
cursing me with his body.
You’re out, young man.
You’re out.