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The Tale Of the Wayward Pitcher

by Sid Yiddish

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On the day that I was ejected from the old ballpark
Not a man spoke to me, as I was pitching a perfect game,
Old superstition singing its refrain.

All those curveballs, all those knuckleballs straight over home plate,
I was feeling so great and then it happened, top of the seventh,
I let one ball pass thru and it was smashed straight over the left fielder’s head.
Those balls were smacked left and center and right.
I knew I was dead in the water,
Just primed for the manager’s slaughter.

And then it happened, I beaned a batter in the head.
That was the end, as I was sent straight to the showers.
Changed into my street clothes and told to go home for the week.

I picked up my old battered gloves and my brand new mitts.
I knew what was coming next, the newspaper text of how it all fell apart.

I looked so promising, the manager once said to me,
But I knew the difference between promise and reality,
For in reality,
No one pitches perfect games anymore.

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For more on Sid Yiddish’s poetry, music and performances, check out his My Space page.

Posted 4/27/09

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T-Bow, 2008

by Doug Fahrendorff

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Removed from the game
To a chorus of boos
After walking in two runs
He sits alone
In the dugout
Cap pulled low
Expressionless
Watching the inning unfold.
Two years before
It had seemed easy
Fastballs painting the corners
Sliders snapping under opponents’ bats.
Sadly
Fans have short memories.

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Posted 4/23/09

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Long Toss

by Todd Herges

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On the occasion of a young daughter’s unaccompanied airline trip to Chicago

Quietly at the top of his cellular voice,
he calls out to the far-off teammate,
who waits with glove open wide, held chest-high:
“You ready?  Here she comes!”

Ball securely in hand he rears back, kicks high,
and in mental slow-motion lets her fly.
Hope mixes with regret
as he watches the precious pill leave his hand,
a gleaming streaming bullet
arcing eastward toward O’Hare.
His toss is long, thrown out of sight,
and satisfaction from seeing
the entire flight – from his fingers to distant mitt – is lost,
absent the echoed smack
of ball meeting leather.

Alone in his car two hours west of Omaha,
he hears the ball’s just-caught voice:  “I’m here.”
Each day will seem a year
until he safely catches her back again.

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Posted 4/20/09

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The Wings of the Bird

by James Finn Garner

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Every kid thinks that he
Could mow down the heart of the Yankees order
If given the chance,
And someday everybody gets that chance,

And it’s good luck to talk to the ball,
And cheers are love that never dies,
And the world would love you if you showed them who you really are,
And magic can happen at any time.

That kid never dies.
That kid was the Bird.

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In memory of Mark Fidrych (1954-2009)

Posted 4/15/09

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Phillies Postgame

By Stuart Shea

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There will be no wrapup.
There will be no highlights.

There will be no lamplights or postgame beers;
After 39 years
The Phillies have laryngitis.

Does God give us life to spite us?

Or is it stupid to hold to our fear
Of eternal nothingness?

If even a voice like Harry’s can be silenced in the great hall of life and death,
Then what’s the use of taking another breath?

In memory of Harry Kalas (1936-2009)

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Posted 4/14/09.