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Season Opener

by Dan Campion

MLB moves into new era: No players left from 20th century
—Associated Press headline

My fellow fans of certain age,
The AP sez we’ve turned a page:
No active player from our youth
Suits up this year. The broadcast booth
And gimpy knees have claimed our last
Gold Gloves and MVPs. The cast
Has turned completely over to
The understudies and a crew
Of stars we watched when fleet and hale
Now coaching from the dugout rail
And trudging up the dugout stair
To pull young pitchers in despair.
I wish we didn’t have to view
Behind this pillar, but we do.
So settle back and have a brew.
As Ernie Banks said, “Let’s play two!”

Dan is the author of Peter De Vries and Surrealism and coeditor of Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song and contributor of poetry to many magazines.

 

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Every Cloud Has a Souvenir Lining

by Michael X. Ferraro

(Or, “This One Really Sticks in Your Crawford Box”)

We have awesome seats, and I brought my glove.
The Houston Astros are the team I love.

Down one in the sixth, a high Red Sox fly
keeps coming toward us. Oh heck! No!!! Why?!

My dad and the crowd all scream, “Throw it back!”
(I mean, anywhere else, it’s just warning track).

So I squeeze the ball, and fight back a tear…
But no way! I’m keeping this souvenir!

 

https://www.mlb.com/cut4/rafael-devers-home-run-confused-fan-who-caught-it/c-298327050

 

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Inscription Found in a Used Copy of Roger Angell’s “Late Innings”

by Andrew Wiesner

To Andy–

Baseball is a jewel of many facets. It is the innocence and emerging skills of a Cub Scout softballer. It is the cavorting delight of a pick-me-up neighborhood sandlot game. It is the semi-comic adult intensity surrounding a Little League contest, and the sub-conscious adult affectations of the Little Leaguers.

It is the hopes and expectations on Opening Day of an otherwise amorphous horde, unified and partially civilized by their allegiance to a common dream.

It is the bitter-sweet experience of attendance at a late September game of two teams who are by then running not in a pennant sprint, but only out the season’s clock.

It is a harmony of mind and body–like ballet–except that baseball’s skills are forged and honed in a furnace which demands not only grace, but victory, and in view of millions.

It is something which enraptures even as it saddens.

It is something which uplifts even as it frustrates.

It is subjective, and yet it is honest.

It is something we have shared, and I am grateful.

–Dad

 

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Clerihews for the 1968 Tigers

by James Finn Garner

On the occasion of the  50th anniversary…

Mickey Lolich
Sure knew how to pitch
And after mowing down opponents
He retired to make the donuts.

Mickey Stanley
Really came in handy.
Move to shortstop from center field?
Hey, Mayo, no big deal!

Stormin’ Norman Cash
All muscle, no flash
A steady squint, a Texas drawl
And a hunk of chaw to finish it all.

Bill Freehan
Was quite the he-man
Proud to stand up and block
The plate from Lou Brock.

Denny McLain
Was a royal pain–
A rip-off artist, a fraud, a sumbitch–
But in ’68, the bastard knew how to pitch.

Al Kaline
Hit .379
Drove in eight runs
And deserved every bit of his fun.

 

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Let Us Look To Scranton-Wilkes Barre

by Publius

Looking up at the suites I know quite well
That, for all Hal cares, I can go to hell
But in the outfield which once promised so much
Roamed too long Shane and now there’s Cutch

How should we like it if Judge does not return
Or if the starters go four and Gary does not learn?
If the Bronx brings naught but misery
Let us look to Scranton-Wilkes Barre

Admirer of success as I am
Even if Cash doesn’t give a damn
I am glad to note after yesterday’s play
That the Riders will see another day

Were New York’s stars to disappear or decay
I should learn to look at AAA
And feel its obscurity sublime
Harkening back to a better time

 

This originally appeared on the Yankee-centric blog, It is High, It is Far, It is . . . caught.