by Danny Rockett
The Limits of Human Vision
by Greg Maddux
You just can’t do it.
Sometimes hitters can
pick up differences in spin.
They can identify pitches
if there are different
release points
or
if a curveball starts
with an upward hump
as it leaves a pitcher’s hand.
But if a pitcher can
change speeds,
every hitter is
helpless,
limited by human vision.
Except for that (expletive) Tony Gwynn.
Brock of Ages
by Elliot Harris
The news of the death
Of the great Lou Brock
Did not come
As a complete shock.
Late in his life
He suffered some ills,
This Cardinals legend
Who provided such thrills.
A man who made the game
So much fun,
Especially so in the way
He could run.
While he could steal bases,
Even better than that
Was how the lefty hitter
Could handle the bat.
Nothing but good words
For a Hall of Fame fella.
Smile, for his legacy
Includes the Brockabrella.
Recalling his glory days
When he ran fast
In World Series games
From the distant past.
The memories he gave us,
May they always last.
(Editor Error! First submitted Sept. 7, 2020. RIP Lou Brock. Apologies to the writer.)
Time is Money, Part CCLXXVII
by Jim Siergey
Originally printed in the Chicago Baseball Magazine, March 30, 2023.
Baseball Before the Apocalypse
by Leah Mueller
Cluster of bodies, soap
bubbles at a Cubs game:
1983, our bicycles shackled
to poles outside, entwined in
a metal snare. To saw through
tempered steel would
give thieves the pick of several.
We smuggled imported
beer in white bottles, eight
bucks a pack, and salads
in sturdy plastic containers
from the Bread Shop.
Bleacher seats three dollars,
nicknamed the “Animal Section.”
No one at the entry gate
ever checked for weapons.
We were good to go, unless
bottles protruded from the
sides of our backpacks,
or we spilled marijuana
on the sidewalk by mistake
as we entered Wrigley Field.
A friend once said,
“If you were one of the lucky
people who got to change
the scoreboard by hand, you’d
be so fucking cool by default.”
We drank beer, passed
joints, ate salads, and
when the game was over,
we took our trash home
and disposed of it properly.
We were good citizens.
No one patted our thighs,
thrust their hands up our shirts,
groped under the waistbands of
our shorts, searching for explosives.
No one checked our health records
for evidence of compliance.
It was just a goddamned Cubs game,
a few 23-year-old kids,
and a summer that would end
like all the others after.
Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her new book, The Destruction of Angels (Anxiety Press) was published in October 2022. She is a 2023 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” appears in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press’ “Best Small Fictions” anthology. www.leahmueller.org