Baseball in the City of God
by Todd Herges
“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 (A Villanelle)
by Eric Nusbaum
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.
Elegy: For Dave Niehaus
By Stuart Shea
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.
A Treatise on Baseball Names
By Bob Sheppard (1910-2010), longtime Yankees PA announcer
.
There are certain names that go over well,
Like Pena, Ramos, Carrasquel,
With liquid sounds so panoramic.
And strangely, they all are Hispanic.
Aurelio, Hipolito, Cecilio, Domingo
Have a lovelier sound than American lingo.
What native name could I ever tell so
Musically, as Valdivielso?
And no native name could ever show us
The splendor of Salome Barojas.
Posted in memory 7/11/10
Playing Golf in Kearney on the Last Tuesday of the Last College Series at Rosenblatt
By Todd Herges
To stand on a crest
In the two o’clock shade
‘Neath the bough of an ever green cedar
On a mid-summer day
When the sky is so blue so full
Of nothing but promise
Of a gentle late-summertime breeze
And later a gentle night shower …
To look southward
And forward
And toward a great rift
Of a great river valley below
And see the rise of soft shoulders beyond …
Is to stand without feeling
Your feet or your height
Or your avoirdupois at all
And to think that right now
As the spring turns to fall
It’s good to be here in Nebraska.
Posted 7/4/10
