We could’ve gone to SeaWorld
The ocean sounds like fun
Instead we sit in the hot heat sun
And watch a game of chance

Is it a game or more a test?
Road-tired vets that have to play
Minted fresh kids who demand their say
Now, then, a years-old dance

It’s a fine, fine line they walk
For us a lazy day
A beer, a dog, just to get away
It takes work to make romance

Late autumn brings damp and rain;
The baseball season is over again.
The Redbirds were soaring;
Their fans were roaring.
And Texas went home empty-handed.

The holidays and new year’s come,
Bringing dreams of series rings to everyone.
The hot stoves start burning,
With free agent yearning,
And revulse at the salaries commanded.

Spring brings tulips and green grass.
Training and opening day are here at last.
Northern fans bundle for the game,
Southern weather is a lot more tame.
And all hope to catch a foul single-handed.

The late Samuel Henry Donham (a college and semi-pro first baseman whose career ended in injury, and later a junior high baseball coach) instilled a love of baseball in his family, including his daughter-in-law Becky. She is a longtime Cubs fan whose faith is wavering.

I’ll never see his like again,
My favourite hitter, Ferris Fain.

In London, Amsterdam and Paris,
They talk of nothing else but Ferris.

He always managed to amaze,
This handsome batsman of the A’s.

In 2002, George Bowering was appointed the first Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada.  His newest book, The Diamond Alphabet, is now available from BookThug.

The Blue of the Bums, the Orange of the Jints and the interlocking NY,
The Mets cap was designed to reflect Big Apple baseball historicity.
Why not wear FDNY or NYPD on 9/11? It’s all about New York City.

The Blue of the Bums, the Orange of the Jints and the interlocking NY.
Joe’s dad walked a Brooklyn beat, but still Bud pinned it on Torre.
He walked out when he was dissed by The Boss, so seriously – what’s the real story?

The Blue of the Bums, the Orange of the Jints and the interlocking NY.
The design is now, of course, officially MLB licensed apparel.
It’s yours for just $29.95, but it won’t save you when your life is in peril.

The Blue of the Bums, the Orange of the Jints and the interlocking NY.
Like the horror of that day ten years ago, we’re left to wonder who’s responsible and why

Rod Nelson is the managing editor of The Emerald Guide to Baseball 2011.

Where the dreams come from not everyone knows
but the fortunate few who the old coaches chose
stand straight now in two perpendicular rows
recite the good pledge, then take a few  throws.

The glare of bright lights, the cameras, the action
excite each young ballplayer’s loud hometown faction
and give tickled fathers some proud satisfaction
that’s tempered with hope, and a tinge of distraction.

A few in the Big Show once played on this stage
but so many more advance to old age
not reaching this peak of pure athletic rage –
a peak just a championship will assuage.

With fundraising over, long practices done
it’s time for the whole world to tune into fun:
to watch catchers gun and the fast runners run;
to see which team ends up on top, number one.

Regular contributor Todd Herges has passed along the exciting news that his son, Jack, plays on the new Nebraska state champ Little League team!  Congrats to Jack and the squad from Kearney!

We’re taught the game is played a certain way;
That men should bunt and strike out reverently
There really isn’t much else left to say.

In Little Rock, they welcomed him with spray
A sullen, stinging, whitewashed reverie.
We’re taught the game is played a certain way.

When one man swung his bat and struck him, they
Bestowed on him the culpability.
There really isn’t much else left to say.

He scratched October Second in the clay
Where local fans had once flung batteries
We’re taught the game, to play a certain way

And despite his prodigious, powerful display
Battling loneliness, rage, misery
There really isn’t much else left to say.

And so Dick Allen scowled as he played.
And so old men wrote their history.
We’re taught the game is played a certain way.
There really isn’t much else left to say.

Patrick Dubuque is the head honcho at the blog The Playful Utopia, which you all should start reading.

“the body, better than it was here in its best estate of health”
Augustine, City of God 13.20

Unlike the mound and infield now,
where grass, dirt, dew drops,
chalk receive and slow
the stitched sphere, will you watch

the cicatrice on the weedless diamond
heal itself before you, glisten
as if untouched but for
the men who cut it clean

of taller whiskery rising strands
that perfect day you found it once,
a glorious Spring day,
in the park in the middle of town?

Or rather will nature be itself
renewed? To the wind give its scars;
the body, its best estate of health
surpassed, from which not its power

but all need is taken, balanced,
sturdy on the spikes; and action:
you turn, meeting the ball with the rounded branch,
willing time true, and each his own perfection.

This is what you wanted, hope for
every time you play:
love casting its heart’s weight’s core
through time to that eternal day.

With apologies to Dr. Gene Fendt

We cannot know his legendary head,
We cannot know his riddle-speak, his swing,
His heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

Oblivious (or publicly misread),
He went forth like a jester, like a king.
We cannot know his legendary head.

Ramirez never anguished, never bled.
Perfection seemed a right and simple thing.
His heart? It greets no consequence, no dread.

A paradox: collective joy and dread
Awash in pride and drunk on estrogen–
We cannot know his legendary head.

A selfish man and insecure, they said.
But maybe public shame can even sting
A heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

And maybe all the jokes had turned to lead,
The time had come to leave the center ring.
We’ll never know his legendary head,
His heart that greets no consequence, no dread.

Eric writes the terrific blog Pitchers & Poets. One of his posts from P&P appears in the 2010 edition of Best American Sports Writing.

To watch for years a losing team,
He’d root and hope and sometimes scream.
Alvin D and Junior G,
Edgar M and Gaylord P,
Til ’95–a magic dream!

Familiar things he’d shout and cry…
A grand salami, my oh my!
Seattle fans will miss his call,
This one’s sailing toward the wall…
Fly away, Dave. It’s gone. Goodbye.