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What is Learned After a Drought

by Sebastian Hunter

In a ring of northern suburbs, a lead
is maintained well into the bottom of the
ninth. You and that horse
you rode in on share the same sad
face, both half-hearted and feasting
on outfield grass. In every ballpark
across the continental States, a looping
ball finds cushion in the field
below a quintessentially gibbous moon
and a night expanding ceaselessly.

Sebastian Hunter is a writer, musician, and perennially disappointed Mariners fan from Seattle. He is previously unpublished.

 

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Skenes Zero-hitZ CubZ

by Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

Inning 1: Zero hits off pitching phenom Paul Skenes;
Three Cubs go down swinging.

Inning 2: Praise the name pronounced Skeenz;
Three more Ks: Ka-ching, Ka-ching, Ka-chinging.

Inning 3: He throws the ball 100 miles per hour;
“Only” one strikeout, but Cubs still have no hits.

Inning 4: From where does the kid get that power?
Two more strikeouts; batters flailing like twits.

Inning 5: Pitch after pitch, Skenes dominates;
A walk spoils his bid for perfection.

Inning 6: Comparisons whispered about all-time greats;
Quick-hook manager says, “You’re done, son.”

Innings 7, 8 and 9: Wrigley Field turns bitter;
Pirates fans grumble, “Coulda been a no-hitter!”

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Gramps Has the Yips

by Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

I taught my T-Ball-playing granddaughter
To throw balls straight like streaming water.

First, the four-seam grip.
She asked, “Got another tip?”

Now, get your feet in place.
She laughed, “Kinda like a race?”

Third, point your glove at me.
She pointed, “Sting like a bee?

Then she threw a perfect strike.
I was so proud of the little tyke.

I tossed it back way, way over her head.
She shoulda been teaching me instead.

She threw the ball like Sandy Koufax.
I screwed the ball like Steve “Bleeping” Sax.

Ten wild, wild throws later, with hands on hips,
I confessed to my granddaughter that I had the yips.

 

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Batter Up

by Bart Edelman

It’s not like I fail to read the pitch.
I’m familiar with the entire arsenal
Employed to make me look foolish
When I step up to the plate.
I know the dip of the curve,
The splitter’s relentless movement,
And the four-seam high heater—
Not to mention the change of pace.

Yet whatever it is I do,
I appear totally out of my league,
Unable to adjust to the rhythm,
Mechanics, and flow of the delivery.
Once my weakness is revealed,
I’m soon confined to the bench.
If it weren’t for my defensive skills,
I’d be booted off the team.

I tell myself it’s a long season;
I’m bound to get a hit one day.
The law of averages keeps me toiling
At the stadium long after dark.
Still, I can’t help but think
I’m pretty much dead weight,
Standing in the batter’s box—
I wish I could simply open.

Bart Edelman, former Little League first baseman for Rudy’s Dairy in Teaneck, N.J., is the author of Crossing the Hackensack (Prometheus Press); Under Damaris’ Dress (Lightning Publications); The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, and The Geographer’s Wife (all Ren Hen Press); and Whistling to Trick the Wind  and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023 (both Meadowlark Press). He now lives in Pasadena, California.