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Paint Me Something Pretty, Pablo

by James Callan

“Welcome to Miami”
As Will Smith sings
Or sung, in 1997
Back when Ken Griffey Jr. was the best

But now it’s you, Luis
And while you are not Judge
At the plate, you judge better than any other.
You slap the ball around like King Richard, like the Prince of Bel-Air at the Oscars.

Welcome to Miami.
All rise for Arráez.
And Mr. López. Oh, Pablo?
You best be a Picasso on that mound
‘Cause honey, the Twins just parted ways with a diva.
Minnie, she just took a gamble on your fire.

So bring it, Señor López
Paint me a Picasso, Pablo.
And make it prettier than Portrait of Dora Maar
Make it prettier than a nice shiny batting average.
Make some art, Pablo.
Paint me a World Championship.

 

James Callan grew up in Minneapolis. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand and is more than likely the biggest Twins baseball fan in the country. He lives on a small farm with his wife Rachel and his little boy Finn.

 

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She Dreams of the End of Spring

By Mark J. Mitchell

She loves the hot corner. While other girls
may fall for lefties at first, she watches
deep glove work and sky-born pop-up catches
that blossom on the left field line. Balls curve
and bounce there different. When third basemen miss
a screaming liner they fall down to cheers
and dirt. The diamond dust’s light as a kiss.
Her heart smiles for forgotten Bill Mueller,
long and laconic. And Matt Williams with his fear
of the high hard one—well, everyone knows
that too-tall stance. Then Mike Benjamin’s short stint—
when God touched his bat for fifteen straight hits.
She’ll bless every utility infielder.
She prays. Training ends. Let’s go to the show.

 

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MLB Rule Changes

by Stephen Jones

First-ever pitch clock,
Elimination of the shift,
Pickoffs and “disengagement”
From the rubber
By the pitcher on the mound —
To name but a few of the new rules.

Sure I get it, MLB
Wants to attract new faces
And they figured it’s about time
To speed up the game …

But I still have trouble with the new bases.
They’re now the size of pizza boxes,
And I’m waiting for the moment,
That moment during a game,
When a hungry player on base
Tries to lift the lid.

 

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715

by Dan Spinella

We watched it together, community
We saw it through a black & white screen
No. 44’s smooth delivery
No. 44’s elegant swing

Buckner at the fence
Tom House in the ‘pen
715
Aaron met at the plate
Kissed by his mother forever

Cheers for a black man
in the South
“You can hear Georgia
around the world.”

 

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winter

by Van

When I was young, in the ’60s,
baseball was a snore in the winter.
I used to take my grass-stained bat
to bed with me,
and smell summer ’til I slumbered.
Other times I’d take my glove
to bed when the smell of oiled horse hide
lead to dreams of heroic runs for a fly ball.
60 years later,
the internet has replaced
my baseball gear late into the night.
Now, there’s free agency to speculate into exhaustion.
Who will sign where?
Why?
For how much?
Which teams are selling?
Who’s buying who?
What will your team look like next year?
Who’s going to greener grass?
Who’s loyal to their fan base?
Now, I’m old enough for my 2nd childhood,
I might wander the aisles of a thrift Store,
seek out an old glove to sleep with,
and see if dreams of dreams come back to me.
But I can already tell that metal bats don’t carry
the allure of grass stains on ash.