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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.

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The Fly Ball

by John Grey

Here I am
in center field,
blue sky,
ball falling,
crowd on edge,
glove flapping
like an albatross’s wing,
now what’s my name again,
where do I live,
who are my parents,
am I five
or twelve or fifteen,
can I tie my own shoelaces,
do I leave the toilet seat
up or down,
am I right-handed, left-handed,
what’s the color of my hair,
am I good at math,
do I know my geography,
what’s that song
that I can’t stop humming,
do I really like that blonde girl
from the next street over,
where are my knees,
what’s this big orange thing
protruding from my hand,
and what about that white projectile
that’s heading in my direction,
do I grab it,
do I let it drop,
why are the other guys
yelling at me,
why am I where I am
on this scruffy patch of green,
a fence behind me,
more green and then
a diamond shape ahead of me,
what is my purpose in life,
is it the very same as my purpose now,
this very minute,
am I a hero or a fool,
do I think too much
about all that goes
without thinking?

 

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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.