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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

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Pastime

by Casey Hannan

At a baseball game, so high up
the birds seem bigger than the players,
bigger than the crowned lion mascot,
and bigger even, than my expectations,
because, you see, I didn’t root, root, root,
for anyone. The Royals sucked and the
Rangers were visitors, so it was
heresy to cheer when they won, which
I think they did, though it’s hard to
remember when all I see, looking back
through the heat, hazy like it is in a
too hot car, is a crowd of people all
trying not to fling themselves onto
the field, so green you could swim
in it, to cool down to the most basic
part of the experience: American History
and the obligation spun from those pages.

For more of Casey’s poetry, check out his blog, Poetry, DUH.

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Posted 8/4/2009

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Mel Hall (Your Reward Has Just Begun)

by Sid Yiddish

Mel Hall

Thought he knew it all

That big ape

Doesn’t he know that rape carries a fine?

Plenty heavy like his deed

To satisfy his need

 

45 years is a mighty long time

To think about his crime

Is that what he said to his victim, while helping himself to a piece of the pie?

 

Back, back, back, hey, hey!

 

Goodbye!

 

Some time in the slammer, Mr. Hall

Think you know it all?

 

Your reward has just begun.

Just begun.

 

 

 

Doing 20 won’t be enough

 

Just ask the little girl

Whom he thought he could do it with

And get away while stealing

Her innocence.

 .

Posted 8/3/2009

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Bunt

by Doug Fahrendorff

Don’t tip your hand too soon
Like poker deception is key
The infield deep
Confident you’re swinging away
Push the ball
To the right side
Past the pitcher
Out of the box
Fast
Safe!

 Published 7/24/09

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The Cowboy Wore a Cubs Hat

by Todd Herges

It’s mid-September and I’m driving
on a perfectly-paved asphalt road
in the Sandhills of Nebraska.  Highway 11
North out of Burwell leads me toward a wedding
in Atkinson, where bridal parties ride to receptions
on flatbed trailers pulled behind pickups – rural limousines.

My kids are with me … the one prone to
carsickness up front, and three in back all happily
listen to my plagiarized story about the
Indian Scare of 1864 and the two young brothers
shot dead by Sioux arrows on a frozen Wood River,
near our home, now many miles to the South.

We’ve already discussed the trip home:
when we’ll leave the reception; what we’ll listen to
on the radio – if we can pick up any station; if my
thirteen-year-old daughter may practice her driving.
The Cubs won out over the Huskers and pop music,
though as it later turned out, NPR was our only choice – and was just fine.

It’s been exactly 100 years since the Baby Bears
last won a world championship, and it’s looking
like THIS MIGHT BE THE YEAR,
though I’ve warned the boys this late-season,
top-of-the-standings situation has been seen before
many times.

As we round the curve just north of the Amelia cut-off
I lift my right foot, move it left, and press down lightly
to slow the car, for facing us
in the ditch to my right, between fence and road,
trot three dozen head of black angus cattle, kept in a tight
group by five cowboys on horseback.

A couple of steers near the lead break off to their right,
hoofs hitting highway, wide eyes a little surprised by their
independence and blustery desire to go where they please.
Heading these renegades off at the pass comes a young
Bud drinker on his steed, jeans chap-covered,
head shaded with a surprising cap.

Mostly royal blue, including the bill,
with a white front on which is stitched
in faded red a familiar circular C.
It’s just like the ones I see on TV
atop college kids and retirees
sitting behind home plate or over the vines.

And it’s here, in Nebraska,
on a road less travelled than any I’ve ever seen.
And the fabric of our country,
it now seems to me,
just got stitched a little tighter.

Published 7/21/09