Mantle and Mays

by Peter G. Mladinic

If I could touch what touches everything,
if I could talk to the animals, if I could
remember the Bronx of 1953 as well as you,
the Polo Grounds would be my memory, one
we shared, you in stands, the Say Hey Kid
in center, across the river, in center Mick.
His glove like Willie’s catches the high pop.

I think of base paths, a batter’s box, a dash
third to home. Mantle for speed, power,
Mays for all-around everything in the Polo
Grounds, you remember sitting in stands
and I vaguely seeing Mantle but more so
an old man’s eye bloodied by a line drive
hit off, say, Brooks Robinson’s bat that day

the Yanks hosted Baltimore, Mick figurine-
small way out in center, but step into
the batter’s box, cousin, as the Mick did
and the Say Hey Kid, to touch the width
and breadth of what touches all, everything.
New York at Mantle’s fingertips, New York
in the pocket of the glove of a kid, Willie

Mays from cotton-field Alabama, Mick
from dustbowl Oklahoma, and you from
greenery of Dumont, the country it was
then, to ride in a Buick across the GW,
step into shadows tall brick walls, courtyard
guarded by stone lions and gargoyles
on ledges and with strength of your eight

year old arms open thick, black-glossed
double doors, high on a hill. So many
cobbled hills, down to the wide Concourse,
sprawl of shops on Fordham, canopies,
the RKO marquee, all the while brick walls
burnished red, brown, light tan of five-,
six-story buildings. The hand sets a potted

begonia on a fire escape, no more than dust
today, that in ‘53 when baseball was king,
joined its other hand to clap a storm
for Mays or Mantle. Look at the tiny curls
of blond hairs on his powerful forearm!
A child might have said to himself to herself,
I love Mickey Mantle, or Willie knocks it

out of the park for me, every time. To come
from whatever he was seeing, cotton under
a big sky, Stars Fell on Alabama, uphill,
and in broad light feel something like God’s
hand (if I could touch what touches
everything) on his shoulder and hear a voice
say Willie, or Mick, this is yours, all of it.

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is due out in November 2023 from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

 

Au Revoir, Dusty

Au revoir, Dusty
In you did we trusty
Smart, passionate, steady
Toothpick at the ready
Giant, Astro, Dodger, Cub
You always improved a club
You have nothing more to prove
And lots of grandchildren to love
Raise a glass of Baker Wine
And celebrate the good times.

 

Topple Heavy

by Hilary Barta

Dave Kingman would give it his all
Each powerful swing at the ball
But, missing, he’d spin
And, to his chagrin
Would teeter off balance and fall.

Illustration by Jim Siergey

The Invisible Visibles

By Rajesh Oza

Giants fans love their M&Ms.

Mays and McCovey:
Willie and Willie
Hit a combined 1,181 home runs.

Marichal and Mathewson:
Juan and Christy
Won a combined 616 games.

Madison and Matt:
Bumgarner and Cain
Led the team to three World Series.

But there is an M&M who never
Hit a homer,
Pitched an inning,
Or won a World Series game.

For 65 years Mike Murphy never
Had his name in a lineup,
Had his name on a baseball card,
Had his name balloted for the Hall of Fame.

But like San Francisco’s fog, Murph was always
In plain sight,
Serving first as a batboy,
And then as the Giants’ clubhouse manager.

Better than most, Murph understands that
Baseball’s Invisible Visibles
Make the game move over a season,
Mark the game’s evolution over decades.

Mike Murphy Makes History as S.F. Giants Hall of Fame Inductee

Gut Check Time

by Greg Simetz

Fans remember well
Thompson’s ‘Shot Heard ‘Round the World’
Giants fans cheered
Dodgers fans hurled

But a new shot was heard
at Guaranteed Rate
causing Sox fans to scatter
after only Beer Number Eight

A smuggled gun went undected
In belly fat it was tucked
And when the lard pulled the trigger
even LaRussa woke up

One person was wounded
another was grazed
but the White Sox kept playing
losers still but unfazed

Then peace was restored
when cops ID’d the plump chick
and in court she was sentenced
to life on Ozempic.