Reviving the Art of Baseball Doggerel
It is, so far, a winter to remember.
Our dreams in the Northeast
Are huddled in a Valley Forge.
Our ballparks have been seized,
Taken by the “white coats” of snow
But in places to the south,
With names like St. Lucie and St. Pete,
The “Sons of Liberty” are unlimbering
They are pitching and catching;
They are heeding the call:
To arms! To arms!
Pitchers and catchers — to arms!
(A repost from 2015)
People
who write about
spring training
not
being necessary
have never
tried
to throw
a baseball.
If I could touch what touches everything,
if I could talk to the animals, if I could
remember the Bronx of 1953 as well as you,
the Polo Grounds would be my memory, one
we shared, you in stands, the Say Hey Kid
in center, across the river, in center Mick.
His glove like Willie’s catches the high pop.
I think of base paths, a batter’s box, a dash
third to home. Mantle for speed, power,
Mays for all-around everything in the Polo
Grounds, you remember sitting in stands
and I vaguely seeing Mantle but more so
an old man’s eye bloodied by a line drive
hit off, say, Brooks Robinson’s bat that day
the Yanks hosted Baltimore, Mick figurine-
small way out in center, but step into
the batter’s box, cousin, as the Mick did
and the Say Hey Kid, to touch the width
and breadth of what touches all, everything.
New York at Mantle’s fingertips, New York
in the pocket of the glove of a kid, Willie
Mays from cotton-field Alabama, Mick
from dustbowl Oklahoma, and you from
greenery of Dumont, the country it was
then, to ride in a Buick across the GW,
step into shadows tall brick walls, courtyard
guarded by stone lions and gargoyles
on ledges and with strength of your eight
year old arms open thick, black-glossed
double doors, high on a hill. So many
cobbled hills, down to the wide Concourse,
sprawl of shops on Fordham, canopies,
the RKO marquee, all the while brick walls
burnished red, brown, light tan of five-,
six-story buildings. The hand sets a potted
begonia on a fire escape, no more than dust
today, that in ‘53 when baseball was king,
joined its other hand to clap a storm
for Mays or Mantle. Look at the tiny curls
of blond hairs on his powerful forearm!
A child might have said to himself to herself,
I love Mickey Mantle, or Willie knocks it
out of the park for me, every time. To come
from whatever he was seeing, cotton under
a big sky, Stars Fell on Alabama, uphill,
and in broad light feel something like God’s
hand (if I could touch what touches
everything) on his shoulder and hear a voice
say Willie, or Mick, this is yours, all of it.
Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is due out in November 2023 from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.
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
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.