Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
The Kenes/Judge first-inning showcase
Was anticipated,
And both the fans and commentators
Were elated
When — bells ringing — it occurred.
But it was a bit of a letdown:
No fireworks — an HR or strikeout —
When the Judge grounded out to third …
And then it was all over too soon.
I have to thank
Vito Barone
for introducing me to
Willie Mays.
Vito lived across the alley
and was appalled to learn
that at the age of nine
I knew nothing
about baseball.
That summer
he came over every day
and we would go across the street
to the empty lot
where he would teach me
to catch, field. throw
and hit a baseball.
Every day.
Where I grew up
you were either
a Cubs fan
or a Sox fan.
Vito was an anomaly
as he was a Giants fan.
Whenever the Cubs played the Giants
he’d invite me over
and we’d watch the games
on TV.
There I got to see Willie Mays
in his prime.
Also
McCovey, Marichal and Cepeda
but Willie was special.
He was magical.
So, thank you, Vito,
wherever you are.
That cinnamon voice
Ricocheting in the clubhouse
Keeping things loose
On the bench
And in the bleachers
No matter the score
Mays’ cinnamon spirit
Sprinkled on summer’s
Long afternoons
Les Keiter on WINS
Me with the transistor
San Francisco an eternity away
You never left
I wouldn’t let you
The Giants fled
I stayed
Your cap flying off
Still
Paul Kocak is the author of Chasing Willie Mays: Chronicles of a Fan Left Behind.
afternoon baseball awakens with the city in the west
pirates vs. marlins adorning the hanging television screen
around him
the day
leisurely stretches,
softly
it begins to
speak:
cars zoom by,
apartments rumble,
dogs shout good mornings at the sun
ke’bryan hayes steps up
to bat
knocks a sure footed
first inning triple
hit into right field
rounds one base,
then two, gone
with the wind
like his helmet
as he sprints towards parking
at third revealing
the tiniest neatest of ‘fros positioned
atop his dome like a crown
okay
sir,
we see you
keep our spirits alive
today’s gonna be alright
.
Tauwan Patterson is a Black + Queer Poet and recent graduate of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Queens University of Charlotte, North Carolina. His work has appeared in online literary magazines Cool Beans Lit, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, and Muse-Pie Press’ Shot Glass Issue #41, and will also appear in the forthcoming Moonstone Arts Center anthology Which Side Are You On?!, the Winter Issue of Rise Up Review, Porkbelly Press’ Love Me, Love My Belly zine, the Rising Phoenix Review, the Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Amazine, and Arteidolia. With his poetry Tauwan aims to, in the words of the great poet and thinker Marcus Jackson, announce his freedom and presence. Making a sound that echoes in the end that says Tauwan Patterson. No more. No less.
Coach took a long look down the bench at Gus,
who pointed at McHugh, who pointed at
me. I wasn’t smart enough to point.
Thus, out I went to mop up, or rather serve
meatballs on a platter. At least
fireflies were already flashing, so
the game would soon be called. I figured
I could stall, fidget with my cap, raise a cloud
by slamming down the rosin bag. But Ump,
who was my uncle and held a grudge against
my father still for something like a cheerleader
back in high school, had a nasty glare—
think Charles Bronson after someone offed
his wife in one of those movies you could watch
through snow and crackles on UHF
stations if you jiggered the antenna.
And why did people always mess with Bronson?
He looked like he could snap in a flash and would
riddle you with holes, enjoy it, too.
That was my uncle, and I had to pitch.
Bases full. Barsomian, the only
kid among us who had cleats, was digging
in. But see, I had a secret weapon.
At home, I’d been practicing my Gaylord
Perry, the way he wiped his forehead back
and forth, back and forth with his thumb,
pinched the bill of his hat, patted his graying hair,
grabbing dabs of Brylcreem or some goopy
substance, loading up the ball but never
getting caught. Cy Young Award winner
Gaylord Perry. So, I went through all
of those contortions, at the end swiping
my fingers in a little gob of Dippity Do
behind my ear. Yes, I had prepared for such
a moment. Then I kicked sky high,
delivered the pitch, which dove sharply
as it crossed the plate and made Barsomian
swing and miss so hard he corkscrewed
down to one knee just like Reggie
Jackson. And even if he launched the next
one deep into the night and cleared
the Neponset River—even if he did that—
I had thrown a spitter and it worked.
Richard Jordan is a lifelong Red Sox fan. The first game he attended was the April 14, 1970, home opener against the Yankees. Reggie Smith slammed a double, a triple and a home run, and gunned down a baserunner from the outfield. The Sox won 8-3 and it was clear to 5-year-old Richard that the Sox would win the World Series that year…ahem. Richard’s poems have been published in Rattle, Terrain, Connecticut River Review, Tar River Poetry and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His collection, The Squannacook at Dawn, was selected as the first-place winner of the 2023 Poetry Box Chapbook Contest.