Thank you, Sara, for the favor.
Sara’s newest novel, Hardball, stars her well-known detective V.I. Warshawski and will hit bookstores on Sept. 22. You can order your copy here.
Posted 9/11/2009
Fire Sale
By Stuart Shea
Yes, you heard right!
Underachieving major league ballplayers
Available for pennies on the dollar!
Hoot and holler
And make your way
To 35th and Shields today!
Visit Kenny Williams’ close-out old-sock sale!
Don’t wait for a flyer in the mail
Because this offer only lasts til
All the talent is gone,
Or September 30, whichever comes first.
.
Posted 9/8/2009
Stu’s new book, Pink Floyd FAQ, is available now! Â
Baseball Cards
by Dan Quisenberry (KC Royals, 1979-1988)
.
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
.
Published 9/2/2009
Zay, Deceased
By John Shea
.Reflections on viewing an otherwise unidentified 1880s player listing in the old MacMillan baseball encyclopedia
.
Unremembered:
Which hand you threw with.
When was your birthday.
How tall you stood.
The simple fact of your demise
A mere assumption, an
Actuarial extrapolation.
Perhaps you’re hanging on still somewhere,
Raging, shaking your fist at God.
Youneverknow.
What we can be sure of:
One fine afternoon,
Before some long-forgotten scribe,
You stood on a hill
And kissed infinity.
.
Posted 8/21/2009
Rivalry
by January O’Neil
.
I came to the party late,
long after Babe was sold to the Yanks
past the magic of Ted Williams and Yaz
and Buckner’s ball through the legs.
Didn’t understand The Curse
but the years without a championship
added up like runners on base
and no one to bring them home.
Generations of Red Sox fans
passed away without a World Series win.
The velocity of our hatred
was unmatched, and we liked it that way.
In 2003, we were Dirt Dogs.
A tribe. A nation. Even the anticipation
of spring training became a torture so real
it bordered on beautiful,
how beauty is supposed to reach us,
with a temporary luster,
with nothing to show for it
but our longing.
If you’re a member of this Nation
you’re full of hunger and angst,
there’s nothing you can do
to ease the silence. Win
or go home is the only option.
We watch no matter what,
learning to live with loss,
that soft hurt that never goes away.
.
Posted 8/19/2009