Posted on

A Perfect Game

by Gregory K.

.
Tonight we’re at a baseball game:
The minors (double A).
But I don’t care! it’s me and Dad –
My siblings stayed away!
My soda couldn’t be more flat.
My Cracker Jacks taste old.
The peanut vendor never came.
My hot dog caught a cold.
But Dad and I are having fun.
In fact, it’s quite a blast.
We’re talking, laughing, telling tales
As innings move on past.
He tells my why he loves the game,
Each hit, each out, each run.
I tell him why I don’t like math.
He says, “Like Dad, like son.”
I tell him that I had a crush,
How weak it made my knees.
He tells me how he met my mom
And when to try a squeeze.
I ask about a stolen base
And why folks like to dance.
He tells me tales of baseball greats
And all about romance.
Dreams, home runs, and silly jokes –
They all come up, and more.
Tonight we’re at a baseball game…
And we’re not keeping score.

Gregory K.  is a screenwriter, poet, and volunteer school librarian.  You can check out more of his work at http://gottabook.blogspot.com.

.

Posted 5/22/2009

Posted on

On Not Being Able to Say Aloud That WALKS KILL YOU

by Todd Herges

A dozen young boys,
caps colored alike,
dream diamond greatness
and shiny steel spikes.

But theirs are mere rubber,
no hair under arms.
They play just for love
and to earn coach’s charm.

Pitching is paramount.
Throwing strikes is the key.
Walks always kill,
issue two and you’ll see.

Don’t aim or you’ll miss,
hear the fat lady’s song.
The leash will be short,
the ump’s sweat stains grow long.

But these hairless boys
with soft cleats, fragile confidence,
hear the boos amid boosts,
and need upbeat assurance.

So I pick a distraction,
my disgust notwithstanding,
and I say:  “Nothin’ hurt,
mind your foot where it’s landing.”

.

Posted 5/19/2009

Posted on

Long Toss

by Todd Herges

.

On the occasion of a young daughter’s unaccompanied airline trip to Chicago

Quietly at the top of his cellular voice,
he calls out to the far-off teammate,
who waits with glove open wide, held chest-high:
“You ready?  Here she comes!”

Ball securely in hand he rears back, kicks high,
and in mental slow-motion lets her fly.
Hope mixes with regret
as he watches the precious pill leave his hand,
a gleaming streaming bullet
arcing eastward toward O’Hare.
His toss is long, thrown out of sight,
and satisfaction from seeing
the entire flight – from his fingers to distant mitt – is lost,
absent the echoed smack
of ball meeting leather.

Alone in his car two hours west of Omaha,
he hears the ball’s just-caught voice:  “I’m here.”
Each day will seem a year
until he safely catches her back again.

.

Posted 4/20/09

Posted on

Kissing HER on the Strikes

By Todd Herges

With apologies to Dizzy Dean.

Spring Break is time for training to play ball
For players and a college couple, too.
But not on sun-drenched South Padre Isle,
And not in Havasu or cheap Cancun:
This boy and girl chose Cactus League for fun.
It could’ve been Vallarta for few pesos.
Instead, like pitcher’s wife and baby son,
They sit on metal bleachers swapping besos.

The sun shines down, the pitchers look for signs.
The umps yell “Foul!” when balls cross outside lines.
The batboys all learn what there is to know.
The shortstops practice how to cut a throw.
While players wait for cut lists, pace the halls,
One schoolboy hopes she’ll kiss HIM.

Posted 3/9/09.

Posted on

Wisconsin Spring

by Doug Fahrendorff

Yesterday
At school
Far from the sun-splashed fields
Of Florida and Arizona
Spring training began
Two boys
Dressed in down jackets
And boots
Against the March wind
Began a game of catch
Near the fence
At the far end
Of the tennis courts
I watched them
Tossing the ball
Back and forth
At times lunging awkwardly
To glove errant throws
Jump-starting spring for me
As certainly as the robins
I’d seen that morning
In my front yard.

Posted 2/25/2009