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Hank Greenberg

by Michael Ceraolo

I was anything but a natural athlete:
it took a lot of hard work to get to the big leagues,
a lot of hard work to stay there,
and a lot of hard work to have the success I had
And there was a whole new set of pressures:
to play on the High Holy Days or not?
After consulting with a rabbi,
I played on Rosh Hashanah but not on Yom Kippur
I remember the pressure I felt because of my religion,
from those who wanted me to succeed and from those who didn’t,
especially when I was chasing the Babe
I remember the ethnic slurs I received
from opponents, fans, and even the occasional teammate,
well beyond what anyone til then had to endure
And with all that I’m sure
it didn’t compare to what Jackie had to endure
Jackie had some nice things to say about me,
and I hope I lived up to them

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The ’30s

by Van

All I know is that some other people made it big
Some other people got paid, some got famous
but all I know is I wanna play, everyday
I don’t care to compare to the Babe or Speaker
I just want to raise the crowd when I come to bat,
I want to quiet the crowd when I make a catch
I want to be all of that for a quarter dollar a day.

 

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The Baseball Wars

by Stephen Jones

A hundred and sixty-two battles during the season
Fought, won or lost on stadium fields of green and dirt —
And where is my team now? It had so much promise
Last April, when everything was new and young,
And then it went to war. The summer-long campaign
Was rough, more games were lost than won —
And now it’s October. The stadium seats are empty,
The crack of the bat is gone, and only the ghosts of
“What if” whisper in the empty tunnels and locker room.

 

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Radio

by Tom LaGasse

All baseball season
night after night
I listen

And here’s the pitch . . .

Who wins or loses
no longer matters
despite what

The most rabid
fans and sports
radio hosts tell me.

I try to pay
attention to
the spaciousness:

The way
each moment opens
green

Like the smell
of freshly
mowed grass.

Often, I get lost
remembering who taught
me how to love the game:

Backyard catch
sandlot games
grandfather, father
uncles, cousins,
friends, teammates.

We know the best
hitters fail more often
than they succeed

At their craft.
I, as a listener,
am no different

On deck is . . .

I look ahead to
warmer weather,
an upcoming game

When I will be
on vacation,
the World Series.

The crack of the bat
always returns me
to the beauty

Of players in motion,
of fans living and dying,
and the open field of green.

Tom lives in Connecticut, the battleground state split between Red Sox and Yankee fans. His baseball short stories have appeared in The Feminine Collective and Turnstyle: The SABR Journal of Baseball Arts.