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Brand New Allegory

by Sid Yiddish

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In November,
When trees become slender
Why is baseball still being played?
We’ve strayed into dangerous territory
A brand new allegory
That sadly cannot be fixed
What we learn,
When there is money to burn
Is not much, to say the least
Just as long as there are hops and yeast added to the mix
A few more tickets to sell
And a couple of hotdogs too
The game could be played well into December,
A month when we traditionally feel the warmth of glowing embers,
But the idea of frostbitten toes and fingers just makes no sense!

I mean, can you imagine Chicago’s Carlos Zambrano in a big gray parka, scarf over mouth while pitching an ice ball straight over the plate, while St Louis’ Mark DeRosa is shivering and shuffles his feet just to keep warm and knocks the ice ball right into the stands, causing fans to slip on ice patches and scuffle over an ice ball, thereby giving frostbite and twisted ankles to several fans in sub-zero temperatures, while both bullpens are warming up with giant bonfires made from Louisville Sluggers?

Well, I can.
But I don’t want to.

And this is why baseball should not go beyond mid-October.
For on Christmas Day, I don’t want some guy say, “Can’t wait for the annual New Year’s Major League Snowball Bash.”

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Posted 11/9/2009

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On a Possible Rockies-Cardinals Playoff

By Stuart Shea

Rocks usually roll downhill.
These Rockies aren’t just landfill.

Left for dead in early May,
They’re in the playoff hunt today.

Playing halfway up the sky,
The Rockies feel a mile high.

The Cards may be their October foe,
Which ought to make a lovely show.

They’ll face a guy they used to pay–
That hitting star, Matt Holliday.

With Denver smog vs. St. Louis heat,
The Coors and Bud should flow quite sweet.

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Posted 9/22/2009

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Baseball Cards

by Dan Quisenberry  (KC Royals, 1979-1988)

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that first baseball card I saw myself
in a triage of rookies
atop the bodies
that made the hill
we played king of
I am the older one
the one on the right
game-face sincere
long red hair unkempt
a symbol of the ’70s
somehow a sign of manhood
you don’t see
how my knees shook on my debut
or my desperation to make it

the second one I look boyish with a gap-toothed smile
the smile of a guy who has it his way
expects it
I rode the wave’s crest
of pennant and trophies
I sat relaxed with one thought
“I can do this”
you don’t see
me stay up till two
reining in nerves
or post-game hands that shook involuntarily

glory years catch action shots
arm whips and body contortions
a human catapult
the backs of those cards
cite numbers
that tell stories of saves, wins, flags, records
handshakes, butt slaps, celebration mobs
you can’t see
the cost of winning
lines on my forehead under the hat
trench line between my eyes
you don’t see my wife, daughter and son
left behind

the last few cards
I do not smile
I grim-face the camera
tight lipped
no more forced poses to win fans
eyes squint
scanning distance
crow’s-feet turn into eagle’s claws
you don’t see
the quiver in my heart
knowledge that it is over
just playing out the end

I look back
at who I thought I was
or used to be
now, trying to be funny
I tell folks
I used to be famous
I used to be good
they say
we thought you were bigger
I say
I was

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Published 9/2/2009

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How Many Hats

By Todd Herges

Each year around this time,
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the Cubbies’ fade begins,
thoughts of a famous postman
rise up to haunt and amuse me.

Joe Doyle was a man who delivered the mail
in rain and sleet and snow,
and on his route was the Tumble Inn  –
a downstate Illinois tavern –
home to all fans of both Northside Nine
and their great crimson rival.

The year ‘69 held a season of fun that
was special and fine for Joe:  his team
seemed a lock for the pennant …
until that Miraculous cloud,
like the rainstorms at Woodstock,
rolled darkly across his landscape.

On one infamous day that September –
as I sat in my Kindergarten class
learning of Apollo astronauts, the Aquarian age,
and letters and numbers and shapes –
Joe with his mailbag walked somberly,
I suspect, down Hickory Street toward the bar.

I’ve often wondered what went through
his mind on that hot Indian Summer morn
as he noticed the strangely full parking lot,
the parking meters on the street out front
all paid, the pregnant surprise party silence
lurking behind neon beer signs in the windows.

There’s not much doubt
what came out of his mouth
as he walked in a huff through the door
and into a smiling wall of Cardinal fan faces,
each one full of good jeer.

I’ve been told it sounded something like
“To Hell with ALL of ya!”
as the flung mail fluttered through the air
and fell like scattered bitter tears to the barroom floor –
as he turned his back on fellow fans of the pastime
and walked out the darkling still-open door
before it had yet banged shut.

Twenty-some years later Joe died.

He was honored by Cub fans and Card friends
alike – the Diehard fans more somber, I suspect,
with inklings of dread at sharing his fate:
he’d lived his long life whole and true,
full of joys and sorrows, pleasure and pain,
children and grandchildren, fortune and fame,
without once enjoying a single, solitary, goddamn title.

Yet still, before the casket lid shut,
a familiar blue cap was laid on his chest
and then moved to the top of his head.

Each year around this time
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the drive for the pennant kicks up
dust for the Cubs to chew on,
I’m often led to wonder
how many other hats,
with that same old circular C,
rest quietly underground, waiting.

Published 8/28/09

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Abel Baker Charles

by Todd Herges

Leading off and batting first,
To start an early rally, it’s
The Abel speedster.
The small weak-batted, fleet-footed speedster.
A BUNT!  It’s down, it’s perfectly placed.
He’s on!  Look out!   The line he’s retraced.
His confident lead betrays his need
To advance himself to scoring position.

Now up it’s Baker.
Two-eighty Baker.
Clutch four hundred with RISPy Baker.
Four balls later it’s first
And third, no out.

And so up to the plate steps Charles.
Charles A-for-Albert Pujols.
Could it have been scripted better?
Thanks in part to Baker’s distraction
the first pitch misses its hoped destination
Its desired its craved low-inside location.
Too much in the middle
It’s right in the wheelhouse
Of a man dreaming hard of the Hall,
And so Charles he crushes, he flattens the ball
On a rocketed frozen rope line
Over the yellow stripe in left center.

Cards up three nothing.
Baby bears an inning closer
To another early hibernation.
First ones in the den, again.

Who needs Daniel, Edward, Frank or George
Or Hooker or Irwin or that guy who will gorge
Himself on six hot dogs each sitting
Like the Babe, Kobayashi,
Or maybe Adam Dunn.
When Charles A-for-Albert steps up to the plate
Stick a fork in those Cubbies,
They’re done.

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Posted 8/5/2009