by Stuart Shea
With thanks to Don Martin
Lester and Chester play pepper with Funderburk
Ginkel warms up with Clyde Kluttz.
Stubby Clapp slaps a grounder past Stirnweiss
That hits Wockenfuss in the nutz.
Minor League Letter Home
by James Finn Garner
Based on an incident witnessed on June 13, 2023, in a game between the Vancouver Canadians and the Hillsboro Hops.
I’m having a swell time, Pops,
Behind the plate for the Hillsboro Hops,
And speaking of swell,
I might rest a spell
After catching a foul tip in the knob.
Casey Hageman
by Michael Ceraolo
When I was pitching in the minors
I threw the pitch that killed Charles Pinkney
I was very much affected by it:
it showed me a baseball career, and even life itself,
isn’t guaranteed to anyone,
and also led me to fight for what I believed in
I pitched little more than an inning
for the Red Sox in 1912 and was ineffective,
so they sent me out to Jersey City
A couple months later Boston wanted to sell me
to a different minor-league team in Denver,
but said I would have to negotiate a new salary
Denver wouldn’t pay me what I was due under my contract;
I said I would accept the lower salary
only if Boston would make up the difference
They refused to do so, and also refused
to let me buy my release,
after first agreeing to let me do so
I refused to report to Denver and,
with the assistance of the Fraternity,
sued for the balance of the salary due me
It took many years, but I finally won,
by which time, through interest and penalties,
the amount I had originally sought
had grown to a considerably larger sum
And that wasn’t my only fight
I got back to the bigs in 1914
and pitched decently but was traded during the season
The second team refused to pay me
the $240 bonus promised in the contract
I again went to the National Commission
and again they ordered the promised payment
Those two challenges were two strikes against me;
baseball didn’t give me a third strike:
I was never again offered a major-league contract
I don’t begrudge the current players:
having to deal with those who run major-league teams,
they earn whatever they get
Shunya to Zero
by Rajesh Oza
They all wear Zero
On the back of their uniforms.
Mathematics’ invention of nothingness
Was a team effort!
Mesopotamians around 3 B.C.
Mayans circa 4 A.D.
Indians named it “shunya” in the mid-fifth century.
Onward to Cambodia,
China, and Islamic countries,
Before 0 joined 1 in the West.
Baseball’s exclamation of a perfect game
Is a team effort!
A catcher calls the first pitch;
A pitcher throws the last one.
In between, fielders play flawlessly.
For sharply hit balls, groundskeepers must keep the field free of bad hops;
On a 3-2 count, umpires shall not erringly call a strike a ball.
And the weather gods will contain the rain in pregnant clouds.
The scoreboard wears Zeros
Across nine innings of perfection.
Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University. His recently completed Double Play, written in Stanford’s novel-writing program, will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press.
A Ballad of Baseball Burdens
by Franklin Pierce Adams
The burden of hard hitting. Slug away
. Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
Else fandom shouteth: “Who said you could play?
. Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!”
. Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job.
Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom’s ire
. Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.
. Or in or out, or haply up or down,
To puzzle him that standeth by the plate,
. To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown:
. Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown,
So pitch that every man can but admire
. And offer you the freedom of the town –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds!
. The tumult and the shouting from the throats
Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds
. Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats.
. A mighty cheer that possibly denotes
That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire;
. Or, as H. James would say, We’ve got their goats –
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
The burden of a pennant. O the hope,
. The tenuous hope, the hope that’s half a fear,
The lengthy season and the boundless dope,
. And the bromidic, “Wait until next year.”
. O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,
O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher
. That next October it shall flutter here:
This is the end of every fan’s desire.
ENVOY
Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase
. Be that to which most fondly we aspire!
For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race –
. THIS is the end of every fan’s desire.