by Stuart Shea
Little League Hero,
First-round pick.
Partied ’til sick,
Major league zero.
Cleared his name,
Did what it takes.
Signed with the Snakes,
Back in the game.
Baseball Cards #1
by Jim Daniels
One
of the 10,342 baseball cards in my parents’ attic
sneezes in the dampness, remembers
sweaty hands.
He calls to me across hundreds of miles:
Remember me, Jake Wood, 1964, 2nd base, Detroit Tigers,
Series 2, No. 272?
He wants to stretch his legs, climb out
from between Wilbur Wood and the 4th Series Checklist
wants to outsail all the other cards
in a game of farthies, float down
on Jose Tartabull in a game of tops.
He wants to smell like fresh from the pack
wants to be perfumed again
with the pink smell of bubble gum.
.
Jim Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University, where he has taught creative writing for 30 years.
Prince Albert in a Can
by Stuart Shea
If Albert Pujols is merely mortal,
Who will be our heroic portal?
You may chuckle, you may chortle–
But people need an idol.
No longer great, but merely good,
Ain’t hit like St. Lou thinks he should,
But if free agency comes–it could–
The wave of suitors? Tidal.
Traditions
by Doug Fahrendorff
Dad’s stories of baseball
In the 60’s
Catch in the backyard
Cheering for the same team
Pickup games at the school field
Your own Louisville slugger
Breaking in a new glove
Collecting baseball cards
A visit to the Hall of Fame
Watching “Field of Dreams”
Expectations on opening day
Your team
Winning the pennant
And World Series
The Sacred Room: Yankee Stadium
by Ed Ryterband
My first Yankee game dad is taking us
I’m full of quiverings and pictures
About Mantle, Berra, Ford and
Suddenly we turn a corner in the Bronx
The giant stadium is looming over us
Vendors hawking banners, hats and badges
I’m drooling over all the souvenirs.
Dad tugs me through a turnstile
Then we join the flow streaming through our gate
One of many in the endless curving wall of Yankee Stadium
A hundred voices rumble echoing inside a tunnel,
Up a ramp and then another ramp
My skinny legs aching with impatience
Up another flight of steps
At last out into the open space
The playing field, the neatest grass and careful dirt and endless seats,
More people than I ever saw.
I gape at them, float above myself
A roar jolts me to attention
The Yankees poring from the dugout
A stream of heroes,
Spreading confident to their appointed places
Hats on hearts they face the flag
The anthem squawks
The game begins at last
I stand and sit and stand again
The plays move slow,
I savor them like ice cream.
Another wish fulfilled a boiled hotdog
Strangers hands pass it on to me
Draped in yellow mustard
I sniff it close, steaming still
My first bite tangy on my lips and tongue.
Washed down with coke and ice cubes for my chewing
Dessert: fresh peanuts
Shells collecting, covering my feet
My breath gets raw and stinky
So dad tells me
I don’t care
What I remember
Mantle hits a homer that never seems to end
The roar is deafening and wonderful,
Carries me into the sky
I hope the game will never end
It does
I sleep the whole way home.