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42

by Phillip W. Wilson

He was not
the best Negro League player
the Dodgers could have signed.
But he was the first
so he had to be better
than legendary.

Where did his calm come from
when he took the field
amidst a rain of insults
hurled like a pyroclastic flow?

How did he show the best
in men
while men showered him
with the worst?

How could he do it
one more day
let alone the next
and then the next?

Whatever it was
burned in him
with such intensity and
white hot heat that,
like Vulcan,
he forged impenetrable armor.

Baseball retired
Jackie Robinson’s 42
for all teams for all time.
The answer to life, the universe
and everything,
is it any wonder
it is the angle at which
sunlight and water
turn into rainbows?

Phillip has recently been published in Poeming Pigeon, and received an Honorable Mention in 2020 in the Oregon Poetry Association’s Contest for new poets. He lives in Beaverton, Ore., with his wife, who is also a poet.

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Baseball in Mexico City Feels Like Football in California

by Rajesh C. Oza

As comedian George Carlin famously said,

“Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life.
Football begins in the fall, when everything’s dying …

In football you wear a helmet.
In baseball you wear a cap …

Football has hitting … and unnecessary roughness.
Baseball has the sacrifice.”

So what did the Giants and Padres sacrifice
In Mexico City’s elevation?

The beauty of a 1-0 shutout;
So many flailing arms in spent bullpens;

And a congested scorecard that seemed to replace
Baseball’s home runs with football’s touchdowns.

As the Giants’ announcer Jon Miller said repeatedly,
“¡Adiós pelota! ¡Adiós pelota! ¡Adiós pelota!”

 

Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University. His recently completed Double Play, written in Stanford’s novel-writing program, will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press.

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The Cleveland Spiders

by R. Gerry Fabian

I am sitting at the bar watching
the Braves versus Phillies game.
Second inning.
The Braves have the bases loaded,
two outs and their seventh batter,
a rookie catcher, at bat.
From out of nowhere,
a woman sits next to me.
“Can you buy me a drink?’
The Phillies’ pitcher throws
a slider, down and away.
Ball one.
I use semantics on the woman.
“If you mean do I have the money
to buy you a drink,
then yes, I do.”
The next pitch is high and tight.
The kid catcher steps out of the box
and then reenters crowding the plate.
“Okay.” The woman agrees.
“Will you buy me a drink?”
Again, I use semantic in hopes
of ending this dialogue.
“If you mean, is there a chance
that in the future
I may purchase a drink for you,
the odds are 75 – 25 in your favor,
if only to end this conversation.”
The next pitch is an outside fastball
and the kid fouls it off.
Count 2-1.
That was your pitch, I think silently.
The woman is unyielding.
“I like baseball, and I would
like you to buy me a drink.”
Count 2-2
I know the pitcher is going to throw a curve.
Hang it. I try to jinx the pitcher.
He throws a sharp breaking curve
but to my astonishment and surprise,
the kid catcher stays on the pitch
and drives it into the right center gap
for a bases-clearing double.
“Do I get my drink now?”
I decide to put an end to this
annoying invasion of privacy.
“Tell me who the greatest pitcher
of all time is and I’ll buy you a drink.”
She smiles.
“Denton True Young.”

 

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Bob Ferguson

by Michael Ceraolo

Though I had started playing ball
before the fly rule went into effect in ’64,
I earned my unusual nickname,
Death to Flying Things, a few years later
Unlike some later players,
who killed birds with batted or thrown balls,
no living things were harmed
in the earning of my nickname
I got it catching line drives at third base
If you think that’s not enough to earn a nickname,
you should try doing it bare-handed
the way I did

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Watching Baseball as We Age

by Aaron Sandberg

Where were we
.      when we began to see

most of these men
.      were half our age

and that any dream we had here
.      was mud-caked and attic-packed?

It’s all small ball now—
.      little victories, fundamentals.

Good knees. Pension plans.
.      Cold beer. Shaded stands.

A sacrifice bunt sets up
.      a suicide squeeze.

A body learns a lifetime
.      of committing toward the base,

of being waved again and again
.      toward home.

Winning is remembering
.      neither team escapes the fate

of swirling dust kicked up
.      from the slide into the plate

no matter how far they pull
.      their caps down over their eyes,

nor how the ump
.      will call the play.

 

Aaron Sandberg has appeared or is forthcoming in Asimov’s, No Contact, Alien Magazine, The Shore, The Offing, Sporklet, Burningword Journal and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, you can see him—and his poetry posts—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.