by Keyes
Don’t dig in against Bob Gibson, he’ll knock you down.
He’d knock down his own grandmother if she dared to challenge him.
Don’t stare at him, don’t smile at him, don’t talk to him.
He doesn’t like it.
If you happen to hit a home run,
don’t run too slow,
don’t run too fast.
If you happen to want to celebrate,
get in the tunnel first.
And if he hits you, don’t charge the mound,
because he’s a Gold Glove boxer.
I’m like, damn, what about my seventeen-game hitting streak?
That was the night it ended.
Gibson would back you
off the plate on a bet.
Pedro had no illusions—
He just hated your guts
if you had a different color uniform.
Nolan Ryan didn’t care if
his 98 MPH fastball hit
a hip, arm, or leg.
Charge the mound for respect?
Next inning?
More chin music…
A nuanced, non-written
rule of the
National Pastime.
A former collegiate offensive lineman and football coach, Dan Provost’s poetry has been published in many print and online magazines. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura, and dog, Bella.
Obviously Not Suitable for Work
This Cubs team elicits some frights
Swinging like scrubs, punchless some nights
Then, as if dosed,
Brute strength is exposed
Who knows which will show up tonight?