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Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt

By David Bottoms

On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence.

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down.

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.

 

David Bottoms, the Poet Laureate of Georgia from 2000 to 2012, currently holds the John B. and Elena Diaz-Amos Distinguished
Chair in English Letters at Georgia State University in Atlanta.

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End-of-Season Moment

by Stephen Jones

Standing at the edge of a long, dusty road
I watched a procession slowly pass me by:
A peddler dressed in a motley of old and new
Followed by a patient, plodding mule
And a creaking, groaning two-wheel cart
Piled high with neatly stacked baseball bats.

The peddler, his face lined by many seasons,
Nodded to me, then jerked his thumb up
To a sign plain-as-day overhead.
I looked and read: “October Straight Ahead.”
Then he grinned — his eyes were bright as suns —
And signaled me to follow, and I did.

 

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Clothespins

By Stuart Dybek

I once hit clothespins
for the Chicago Cubs.
I’d go out after supper
when the wash was in
and collect clothespins
from under four stories
of clothesline.
A swing-and-a-miss
was a strike-out;
the garage roof, Willie Mays,
pounding his mitt
under a pop fly.
Bushes, a double,
off the fence, triple,
and over, home run.
The bleachers roared.
I was all they ever needed for the flag.
New records every game—
once, 10 homers in a row!
But sometimes I’d tag them
so hard they’d explode,
legs flying apart in midair,
pieces spinning crazily
in all directions.
Foul Ball! What else
could I call it?
The bat was real.

Stuart Dybek, the recipient of both Guggenheim and Macarthur fellowships, is the author of seven collections of short stories and poetry. He is the Distinguished Writer in Residence at Northwestern University where he teaches at the School of Professional Studies.