Dropping Like Flies

By Robert E. Petras

Dropping like flies Reverend Miller summed up
The demise of our latest late classmate.
Dropping like flies — could the Preach
Be referring to the late Johnny B,
Whose brief time spent on the baseball diamond
Was spent relegated to right field,
Perhaps the most important position
In that by filling it a team saved
Itself the ignominy of forfeiting, possibly extinction,
Because of being one player short,
Which, in the harsh truth, it probably was,
Because the field was filled
By the worst fielder on the team,
Besides the coach’s kid at shortstop,
A kid who couldn’t catch, couldn’t
Throw and couldn’t count,
And probably did not count, a dude
So uncoordinated he couldn’t match his socks,
A four-eyed, three-strike-out-called-out-
Looking artist, like Johnny B. Not Good,
Whose only positive field statistic recorded
Was an assist, a result from what
We called a charity hop from a pop fly that
Hippity-hopped off his head,
Snagged by our savvy, speedy centerfielder,
Whose name eludes me like a wild pitch.

As a classy class prez, I said
Dropping like dominoes, an assessment
Less cliché, more dramatic, more poetic,
More end-of-the-linish.
Dropping like dominoes, I repeated
For more dramatic, poetic effect.
Then I went on to expound in great detail
How our most recent class statistic
Ruled the playgrounds when dominoes,
Jacks and five-card stud were still in vogue,
And that Johnny B. Good still holds
The class record for the most dominoes dominoed
And knowing him he will no doubt
Go well beyond the eternal ten count.
Dropping like dominoes I said
So dramatically, so poetically, so final
Johnny B. got a standing O.

Robert E. Petras is a lifelong Pittsburgh Pirates fan who goes back three stadiums. A lover of baseball with a linebacker mentality, he played on the Marshall University Young Thundering Herd featured in the movie We Are Marshall. He is the author of three books: the humor collections River Rats and Release the Belgium, and the sci-fi novel, The Locust People (upcoming). All are available on Amazon and Kindle.

Mother Earth’s Favorite

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

Chaupai (quatrain) poetry celebrating Mangla and Rajesh’s 40th anniversary on Earth Day, April 22, 2024.

My children’s mother loves all four of them dearly, holds them closely,
Just as Mother Earth loves her seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
As a fan, she loves all sports: Big Four, Olympics, and kabaddi;
As a teacher, she loves all students: quiet, chatty, short, and tall.

Holding my breath, I ask Mother Earth if there is a favorite.
She holds my head in her hands and shakes it like a Raggedy Ann.
“How can I choose one over the other; a child is not a chit.”
I reply, “My Queen, not our kids, but sports. Does one claim you its fan?”

She sighs. “It cannot be football, for it is violent and vile.
How can I root for players whose handsome faces I cannot see?
No, Fall’s game that blitzes and throws bombs and bullets raises my bile.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is too high a fee.”

She freezes. “It is not hockey, for it neglects too many shades.
How can such a lovely sport be so limited in its pigment?
While it’s scintillating when pucks spring off of slap shots from curved blades,
I look around the ice, and skins brown and black are but a figment.”

She smiles. “It could be basketball; just see the boys and girls in shorts.
To be sure, there is so much beauty in this game of balls and nets.
Still, there is something unforgiving about wood and concrete courts.
To defend against Tex Winter’s Triangle Offense, one plays chess.”

She glows. “I should not choose between my offspring, for they all bring joy.
But it is baseball. It is baseball. Yes, it is our dear baseball.
After Winter’s snow melts, on grassy fields bats and balls we deploy.
A game for all ages and seasons, from Spring to Summer to Fall.”

 

Pitching Injuries — A Long List Early in the Season

by Stephen Jones

On the long, long IR line, of mostly
Pitchers early in the season,
You’re waiting to get into
MLB’s popular fragility club,
The club no one wants to join…

It’s your turn to flash the bouncer;
You show him your card with a picture —
It’s your elbow — and he looks,
Then declares: “What, another pitcher —
And a young one at that?” Then
He opines: “What’s with all you guys?”

You protest: “Hey, it’s not my fault.
Everyone’s always told me: Pitch harder,
Pitch faster — with more spin and torque!
I can’t help it if I’m young.” Words drift off.

The bouncer nods like a ballpark sage
Who’s seen it all, and thinks: “Don’t they
Know the human body has its limits,
Even when you’re young?”
But then he shrugs and lets you in.

 

A Baseball Eulogy: Total Eclipse of the Game

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

(In appreciation of the April 8, 2024 solar eclipse and with apologies to Bonnie Tyler)

Baseball was my reliable Chicago sun:
Warm summer days, filled with run after run.

Basketball was my Windy City moon:
Cool winter nights, swishing nets into June.

My heart had space for Doubleday and Naismith’s games;
My heroes in Cooperstown and Springfield’s Halls of Fame.

But my steadfast true love
Began with bat, ball, and glove.

Once upon a time, Whitman waxed serious,
“The game of ball is glorious.”
The poet couldn’t imagine “base” falling apart.
There’s nothing I would lament, for
Nothing could eclipse my game of ball.

Then a madness occurred;
Began with Magic and Bird.

Ernie Banks’ around-the-bases smile,
Was displaced by MJ’s high-flying guile.

Today’s kids are in far too much of a hurry,
Thrilling to threes by sweet Steph Curry.

They know not the wonder of a triple play,
As rare as the moon getting in the sun’s way.

Once upon a time, there was light in our life,
But now there’s only love in the dark.
Is there nothing that can save us from
A total eclipse of the game?