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The Fly Ball

by John Grey

Here I am
in center field,
blue sky,
ball falling,
crowd on edge,
glove flapping
like an albatross’s wing,
now what’s my name again,
where do I live,
who are my parents,
am I five
or twelve or fifteen,
can I tie my own shoelaces,
do I leave the toilet seat
up or down,
am I right-handed, left-handed,
what’s the color of my hair,
am I good at math,
do I know my geography,
what’s that song
that I can’t stop humming,
do I really like that blonde girl
from the next street over,
where are my knees,
what’s this big orange thing
protruding from my hand,
and what about that white projectile
that’s heading in my direction,
do I grab it,
do I let it drop,
why are the other guys
yelling at me,
why am I where I am
on this scruffy patch of green,
a fence behind me,
more green and then
a diamond shape ahead of me,
what is my purpose in life,
is it the very same as my purpose now,
this very minute,
am I a hero or a fool,
do I think too much
about all that goes
without thinking?

 

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Dropping Like Flies

By Robert E. Petras

Dropping like flies Reverend Miller summed up
The demise of our latest late classmate.
Dropping like flies — could the Preach
Be referring to the late Johnny B,
Whose brief time spent on the baseball diamond
Was spent relegated to right field,
Perhaps the most important position
In that by filling it a team saved
Itself the ignominy of forfeiting, possibly extinction,
Because of being one player short,
Which, in the harsh truth, it probably was,
Because the field was filled
By the worst fielder on the team,
Besides the coach’s kid at shortstop,
A kid who couldn’t catch, couldn’t
Throw and couldn’t count,
And probably did not count, a dude
So uncoordinated he couldn’t match his socks,
A four-eyed, three-strike-out-called-out-
Looking artist, like Johnny B. Not Good,
Whose only positive field statistic recorded
Was an assist, a result from what
We called a charity hop from a pop fly that
Hippity-hopped off his head,
Snagged by our savvy, speedy centerfielder,
Whose name eludes me like a wild pitch.

As a classy class prez, I said
Dropping like dominoes, an assessment
Less cliché, more dramatic, more poetic,
More end-of-the-linish.
Dropping like dominoes, I repeated
For more dramatic, poetic effect.
Then I went on to expound in great detail
How our most recent class statistic
Ruled the playgrounds when dominoes,
Jacks and five-card stud were still in vogue,
And that Johnny B. Good still holds
The class record for the most dominoes dominoed
And knowing him he will no doubt
Go well beyond the eternal ten count.
Dropping like dominoes I said
So dramatically, so poetically, so final
Johnny B. got a standing O.

Robert E. Petras is a lifelong Pittsburgh Pirates fan who goes back three stadiums. A lover of baseball with a linebacker mentality, he played on the Marshall University Young Thundering Herd featured in the movie We Are Marshall. He is the author of three books: the humor collections River Rats and Release the Belgium, and the sci-fi novel, The Locust People (upcoming). All are available on Amazon and Kindle.

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Pitching Injuries — A Long List Early in the Season

by Stephen Jones

On the long, long IR line, of mostly
Pitchers early in the season,
You’re waiting to get into
MLB’s popular fragility club,
The club no one wants to join…

It’s your turn to flash the bouncer;
You show him your card with a picture —
It’s your elbow — and he looks,
Then declares: “What, another pitcher —
And a young one at that?” Then
He opines: “What’s with all you guys?”

You protest: “Hey, it’s not my fault.
Everyone’s always told me: Pitch harder,
Pitch faster — with more spin and torque!
I can’t help it if I’m young.” Words drift off.

The bouncer nods like a ballpark sage
Who’s seen it all, and thinks: “Don’t they
Know the human body has its limits,
Even when you’re young?”
But then he shrugs and lets you in.

 

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Baseball Is

by Ernie Harwell

Baseball
is the president tossing out the first ball of the season
and a scrubby schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm.
A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from the corner of his dugout.
That’s baseball.

Thanks to the always fascinating Twitter account of Jim Koenigsberger (@jimfrombaseball).

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Mr. Scoreboard

by James Finn Garner

the ledger of the sport that night
quiet and relentless
innings in other parks decided
three outs somehow made

if action here was lagging,
it was hopping somewhere else
and this wide network was tallied
with metal placards
slotted by men in shirtsleeves, sweating, smoking

Chesterfields and Old Golds
as advertised
and checking their watches
B-U-L-O-V-A

when the out-of-town games ended
east coast, then west coast,
the placards were put away
retiring like the faces of fans heading home
just as we would soon do
under the silent watchful eye of
Mr. Scoreboard

Sportsmen’s Park, St. Louis, July 20, 1951.