5 weeks & 3 dismissed jurors later

(jurors having fallen asleep
during counsel’s endless
seemingly pointless examination
& then by law let go)

this trial has exceeded boredom
is now treading in dysfunctional limbo
& has left a bitter taste:

day-by-day less truth is being
oberved/served & one could wish
somebody would call off the whole
thing on account “of legal rain”

It’s not 14 years.
Really?
Since Kid K choked the Stros?
Ah, but what’s 14 years anyway,
In a Cub fan’s memory?

A short trip to the DL
And he’d be back again
Better than ever
Ready to win
Again, again, again . . .

Then one last, sweet K
On three straight pitches
And a hug from his Justin on the dugout steps

A kid for all time
Youth ready, on tap
Hope in pinstripes

I was always a Cub, I’ve always been a Cub, and I’ll always continue to be a Cub.

What’s 14 years anyway,
In a Cub fan’s memory?

Permissible or not
There seems to be a drought
Of honesty afoot

Pitching maybe-perjury
Clemens seems for once
To be outta his league

His domineering stance
On the mound not found
Now drugs/performance

An arguance
More finger pointing it seems
As ugly truths are exhumed

Say “Hi” to “The Kid”

who never missed a beat/bat
of enthusiasm & protocol

even when his locker room
teammates were elsewhere

who believed baseball is a game
not of dollars & nonsense

who never cursed ‘cept once
in Game 6 the ’86 World Series

when on first base he swore
“I will not lose this damn game”

heart owning the whole thing
& who maintained a standard

beyond “behind home plate”
& something we could all learn from

How thin-skinned Red Sox players
Seemingly are off-stage
Dramatically running to defend
“Slighted” comrade Youkilis

It seems nothing in Boston functions
Without turmoil
And there’s no such thing as “just a blip”
On Boston’s radar

So what’s next in Bean . . . no
“Diva” Town?
Saddle up City of Boston
For a bumpy summer stage

In the beginning there was silence
Complete and deafening
Enough for a quiet cliché about a pin dropping
The kind of silence only a home crowd can achieve
A silent empty air
created by dashed anticipations and disappointments too numerous

There was nothing in the stillness
to suggest an end to the resolve to wait another day
There was nothing but more of the same
Futility ruled as the first two men trudged from dugout to on-deck to plate

The first was out without a twitch of recognition
Watching as three straight zipped past
The second flailed at three more
But the stitched leather need not fear
as it found safe haven in the mitt

Next up

Sensing the final indignity and the end of the day’s misery
one lone fan began to clap
Slowly, what was left of the crowd began to laugh and clap along
A rhythm built that had been missing throughout
Even the Ump smiled
understanding the need

No one wants to be the last out but someone must
No one can step into the box with doubtful thoughts and survive
The confrontation at hand
although shared by many on and off the field
is in a sense one-on-one
And one will fail

It seemed as though the man on the mound was in control
Had a sure thing in the bag
and would soon have a refreshing shower and steak dinner
It seemed the man at bat was behind in the count before the first pitch

But things happen
Things happen in a subtle way and seem not to matter
One gets away and just nips the uniform

Man on first

The next with a powerful swing
manages to barely get bat on ball
and owes lady luck a big kiss for his “swinging bunt”

Men on first and second

Shake it off
No harm done
Get the next guy and go home
Quickly there are two strikes

The diehards who continued whooping
are standing and stomping
sensing the possibility of the unreal
Eliminate the impossible and the unbelievable can be true

The next pitch gets in his kitchen
The bat is shattered – splintered
Shards flying every which way
as the ball brazenly bloops just out of reach
from the outstretched infielder
The hard charging outfielder

Bases loaded

Players live for this moment
Down by three
Bottom of the ninth
Two outs
Winning run at the plate
A childhood dream of Grand proportions

A visit to the mound just for cool and concentration
It’s not like anything has been hit hard
or his stuff has disappeared
Just a few flukes
He’s the ace

The right man is up for the job
An RBI machine when it counts
Power to all fields

He knows what to look for and gets it
Smooth, quick, bat speed a blur
The “Crack” says it all

As the ball reaches the fences
the man in right times his leap
and the Umpire gets in position

The stands are on their feet
as time stands still
in anticipation of a moment to remember

A glove leans over and snatches
the ball in flight
The defender comes up empty
On and off the field
an eruption of pent up emotion

A game of beauty can leave
both victor and vanquished
stunned

Splendor on the grass?
Today’s faithful will never know

Fan interference
Batter out
Game over

In the Big Inning there was

[SILENCE] 

According to family legend, Art Gomez was conceived in a Chicago hotel room when his father had a tryout with the Cubs. A devoted Mariners fan, Art reads his poems in the Seattle area as a member of PoetsWest and Seattle Free Lances. His poems have appeared in Spindrift, Minotaur Press, Poetic Matrix, Seattle Muse, and Poets Against War, and on KSER 90.7 FM (Independent Public Radio).

Anytime baseball happens
one’s mind is relieved

like dreams sometimes relaxed

by hardball & glove
by bat & smack

Connor and Josh performing their poem “Baseball” at The Cantab Lounge in Boston, Mass., at The National Poetry Slam in 2011. They were representing The Loser Slam venue from New Jersey.

Got `em got `em got `em
don`t got `em
Got `em got`em
don`t got `em

The clear flick of the cards
as I flip through Doug’s doubles
cuts thick August heat, summer, 1968
in the dusty field behind his house.

Look what I found, you guys.
His little brother Matt shows us
A magazine called Swank
wrinkled up and dirty.
Nothing like that
in our rubber-banded stacks.

We make a deal with Matt
and he flips through our doubles
Got `em got `em don`t got `em
as we silently turn the worn pages
and our mouths get dry.

Jim Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University, where he has taught creative writing for 30 years.

How hollow it seems
that the opening game
of the season was in Japan

The market deemed,
baseball explained,
it’s now international pastime

Yes, “changing times”
& “good for the game”
are the general conclusion

However the explanation
what’s missed is tradition
opening day at home field