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Two Hands

by Robert E. Petras

“Two hands!” cried my dad,
A dude who grew up

When mitts were as flat as Biblical Earth.
Even a pitcher named Mordecai Brown

Used two hands, and his nickname
Was Three Fingers.

Pop ups, grounders, line drives, Baltimore
.         Chops—

Did not matter—two hands
Was my old man’s mantra.

I had a spanking new Rawlings,
Had a pocket you could pull out

A rabbit but not one over
My old man. The mitt

Was stiff as a wedding
Invitation. Beat it and beat it

I did and steeped that stubborn hide
With saddle soap, butter, Mazola,

Vicks Vapo Rub, 30 weight,
Anything lubey. Over and over

I pounded it with a rubber mallet,
Ran it over and over with my bike

Until that leather went limp
As overcooked spaghetti,

So soft you could use it for a pillow,
Which I did,

Firm enough to snag a rope,
Which I did,

A leaping stab in centerfield,
But I threw it to the wrong cutoff.

“Use your brain!” my dad yelled,
“Both sides of it!”

 

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Thank You, Vito Barone

by Jim Siergey

I have to thank
Vito Barone
for introducing me to
Willie Mays.
Vito lived across the alley
and was appalled to learn
that at the age of nine
I knew nothing
about baseball.
That summer
he came over every day
and we would go across the street
to the empty lot
where he would teach me
to catch, field. throw
and hit a baseball.
Every day.
Where I grew up
you were either
a Cubs fan
or a Sox fan.
Vito was an anomaly
as he was a Giants fan.
Whenever the Cubs played the Giants
he’d invite me over
and we’d watch the games
on TV.
There I got to see Willie Mays
in his prime.
Also
McCovey, Marichal and Cepeda
but Willie was special.
He was magical.
So, thank you, Vito,
wherever you are.

 

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Giant Shoulders

by Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

In honor of Willie Howard Mays, Jr., 1931–2024

Stand on the shoulders
of the Giants’ Willie Mays
and roar, “Say Hey, Kids!”

 

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The Spitter

By Richard Jordan

Coach took a long look down the bench at Gus,
who pointed at McHugh, who pointed at
me. I wasn’t smart enough to point.
Thus, out I went to mop up, or rather serve
meatballs on a platter. At least
fireflies were already flashing, so
the game would soon be called. I figured
I could stall, fidget with my cap, raise a cloud
by slamming down the rosin bag. But Ump,
who was my uncle and held a grudge against
my father still for something like a cheerleader
back in high school, had a nasty glare—
think Charles Bronson after someone offed
his wife in one of those movies you could watch
through snow and crackles on UHF
stations if you jiggered the antenna.
And why did people always mess with Bronson?
He looked like he could snap in a flash and would
riddle you with holes, enjoy it, too.
That was my uncle, and I had to pitch.
Bases full. Barsomian, the only
kid among us who had cleats, was digging
in. But see, I had a secret weapon.
At home, I’d been practicing my Gaylord
Perry, the way he wiped his forehead back
and forth, back and forth with his thumb,
pinched the bill of his hat, patted his graying hair,
grabbing dabs of Brylcreem or some goopy
substance, loading up the ball but never
getting caught. Cy Young Award winner
Gaylord Perry. So, I went through all
of those contortions, at the end swiping
my fingers in a little gob of Dippity Do
behind my ear. Yes, I had prepared for such
a moment. Then I kicked sky high,
delivered the pitch, which dove sharply
as it crossed the plate and made Barsomian
swing and miss so hard he corkscrewed
down to one knee just like Reggie
Jackson. And even if he launched the next
one deep into the night and cleared
the Neponset River—even if he did that—
I had thrown a spitter and it worked.

Richard Jordan is a lifelong Red Sox fan. The first game he attended was the April 14, 1970, home opener against the Yankees. Reggie Smith slammed a double, a triple and a home run, and gunned down a baserunner from the outfield. The Sox won 8-3 and it was clear to 5-year-old Richard that the Sox would win the World Series that year…ahem. Richard’s poems have been published in Rattle, Terrain, Connecticut River Review, Tar River Poetry and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His collection, The Squannacook at Dawn, was selected as the first-place winner of the 2023 Poetry Box Chapbook Contest.