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The Double Play

by Robert Wallace

In his sea-lit
distance, the pitcher winding
like a clock about to chime comes down with

the ball, hit
sharply, under the artificial
bank of lights, bounds like a vanishing string

over the green
to the shortstop magically
scoops to his right whirling above his invisible

shadows
in the dust redirects
its flight to the running poised second baseman

pirouettes
leaping, above the slide, to throw
from mid-air, across the colored tightened interval,

to the leaning-
out first baseman ends the dance
drawing it disappearing into his long brown glove

stretches. What
is too swift for deception
is final, lost, among the loosened figures

jogging off the field
(the pitcher walks), casual
in the space where the poem has happened.

 

Copyright by Robert Wallace

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Unaware of the News

by Raphael Badagliacca

Unaware of the News

Springtime

arrived

scorecard

and

pencil

in hand,

dark

glasses

on a cord

round

the

neck

for the sun’s

bright

moments.

 

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Walter Johnson

by Michael Ceraolo

Sportswriters frequently praised my modesty,
and often added that I was scared to death
of hitting batters with a pitch lest I kill them,
thereby inferring I could have been more effective
Since I hit more batters than almost every pitcher ever,
it would seem I easily overcame my fear
And while I like to think I lived up to the modesty part,
being modest does not mean that you don’t recognize
your own worth both on and off the field
My pitching effectiveness speaks for itself;
there’s no reason for me to further tout it
And I was aware of what I was worth to the team financially:
though I couldn’t get anywhere near that amount
because Mr. Griffith and the other owners held all the cards,
I frequently held out to get what I could
And the one time the players held a few cards
with the existence of the Federal League alternative,
I signed a three-year contract with the Chifeds
for a $5500/year raise from what I was making,
along with a $6,000 signing bonus
(one of the other owners of the Senators
said I wasn’t worth what they were paying me,
much less merited a raise,
because I had only won 28 games the previous season)
I jumped back to Washington for a mere $500 raise,
along with Mr. Griffith promise that he would get me
a few thousand more for each of the next few seasons afterward
And Mr. Griffith lived up to his promises

Michael Ceraolo, a retired firefighter/paramedic, follows sports and writes poetry, mainly about the Cleveland area.

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NOpening Day

by Raphael Badagliacca

No wind up
No pitch
No swing
No hit and no miss
No peanuts
No crackerjacks

Only memories and hope

 

 

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Mordecai Peter Centennial Brown

by Peter Ceraolo

I’m using my given name here
because my nickname, Three-Fingered,
was a misnomer:
I had four-and-a-half fingers,
losing half of my right index finger
to farm machinery when I was a kid
While I was recovering from that,
I fell and broke the other fingers on that hand;
they never straightened completely after that
I understand today there is a pitch
called the split-fingered fastball
I think I was the originator of the pitch
without knowing it due to the missing half-finger
Considering the success I had,
including a winning record head-to-head
against Mathewson in games we both got the decision,
I am sometimes surprised
that other pitchers didn’t cut half a finger off.