With Love and Ancient Cautions: From a Wood Fan to a Strasburg Fan
By Joe Moag
Unto He!
Unto He, the new rookie,
He with an arm fit to hoist Zeus’ bolt,
Fit to slay our past; fit to redeem our degradations.
Unto He, our welcomed savior!
A reprieve from years of ill, from years of doubt,
From years of lowness.
Unto He, the Lifter!
Unto He, the Changer!
Unto He, the Future!
Unto He, Alleviator of this state
Of prolonged exile, of overdue vengeance,
Of our just and righteous payback!
Unto He we place this proof
That our faith, traveled across orphanage and dismissal,
Our Faith, that thing
Which steeled our resolve
To simply stay in the game long enough,
Has borne fruit! It has brought
Him, here, to Us.
No light as bright as this has ever shone, only to
Fall away in wreckage through the dimming of life’s cold onslaughts and hurly-burl!
Immortals don’t flinch, or suffer, or miss their mark – they shine!
Our wait itself is the toil and testament to the surety of this!
This Game and its Gods, who sit high and low,
Sworn sacred to the mischief in their souls
Could never be jealous enough
To make this foreseen future, this deserved fate,
Fall short.
Posted 6/27/10
No More Outs to Play (A Villanelle)
by Joe Pacheco
As per Edward Arlington Robinson
They have all moved away,
The stadium’s shut and still.
No more outs to play.
No one to shout hooray
Or feel late inning thrill,
They have all moved away.
No afternoon display
Of valor, strength and skill.
No more outs to play.
Nor high priced stars to pay
Or luxury box to fill,
They have all moved away.
As empty stands decay,
Grass shrouds the pitcher’s hill,
No more outs to play.
One last fireworks array
Will deliver final kill.
They have all moved away.
No more outs to play.
.
A villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models. A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is 19 lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain. (Wikipedia)
Posted 4/23/2010
Southpaws on Parade
by Todd Herges
.
Quick trips up are saved,
or so it is said,
for lefties who hit with good pow’r;
the finest of gems
scouts try hard to mine
are sinister live-armed hurlers.
Oh-nine is the year
these truths can be seen
on both of the teams still alive.
For while Pujols is great
and Vlad’s bat can’t wait
they stand in the box close to third;
while Lincecum’s crazed
and Beckett is made
They’re now taking showers at home.
The teams that are left
are those who chose best,
hitched wagons to maladroit men.
Howard, Hideki,
Damon and Utley,
on demand can take the ball yard;
Cliff Lee and C.C.,
Cole Hamels, Andy,
quite clearly show that they’ve got game.
So now we are left
to watch quite impressed
A southpaw-filled Classic on Fox.
(The lefthanders playing in the World Series this year are: pitchers Phil Coke, Damaso Marte, Andy Pettitte, CC Sabbathia, Antonio Bastardo, Scott Eyre, Cole Hamels, A.J. Happ, and Cliff Lee; hitters Robinson Cano, Johnny Damon, Brett Gardner, Eric Hinske, Hideki Matsui, Paul Bako, Greg Dobbs; Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, Raul Ibanez, Matt Stairs; plus switch hitters Melky Cabrera, Nick Swisher, Mark Teixeira, Jorge Posada, Jimmy Rollins and Shane Victorino. Twenty-six men. Over half of the two combined rosters. Juuust a bit outside the “normal” distribution of lefties among the general public.)
.
Posted 11/2/2009
Homer in the Ninth
by Todd Herges
.
From the Ninth Book of Homer’s Odyssey
(Lines 101-112, as translated by J. W. MACKAIL, c. 1905)
Then for a while, as long as morn was grey,
And through the increase of the sacred day,
Against them, though they far outnumbered us,
We held our ground and kept in our array.
But at the hour of the descending sun,
When from the plough the oxen are undone,
Back the Ciconians drove the Achaean host
And broke them, that escape we hardly won
From death and doom: but of my mail-clad host
Six from each ship lay dead upon the coast.
Thence we sailed on, escaping glad from death,
Yet heart-sore for the comrades we had lost.
Homer in the Ninth
Then for a while, as they in travel gray,
And through the weather of the autumn day,
Against them, though their fan base outsized ours,
We held our ground and kept
Long past the hour of the descending sun,
When from the beer the vendors are undone,
Back the Angelenos drove Manuel’s men
And broke them, that escape we hand’ly won
From season’s end: beat’n by the red-clad host
The Dodger team lay dead upon our coast.
Thence we moved on, escaping glad from death,
Yet thankful Ryan Howard gives his most.
.
Posted 10/22/2009
Elegy
by Ember Nickel
.
Raise up a roof, the finest of its day.
“No longer,” boast, “shall rain or snow deter
Our baseball games; we’ll always get to play.
Whatever the weather, we won’t defer.”
Raise up your eyebrows and mutter along.
“This thing’s ugly.” “This is a piece of junk.”
“Who built this mess, and where did they go wrong?”
“Did anybody realize that it stunk?”
Raise up your voices, fill the roof with sound.
Don’t worry if, when on the road, they lose.
They’ll come back home and then they’ll come around.
We have home-field advantage, what good news!
Raise up the flags, the pennants proudly won.
No matter if one season we’re the worst.
We’ll rally back, we’ll never say we’re done
Till we raise the second flag, again first.
Raise up a generation till they love
The game, but subtly imply they should hate
The field they see. Whisper “blue sky above
Is what you want–this all is second-rate.”
Raise your shoulders if they ever ask why.
Shrug, write it off, until they do not know
What’s wrong with what they have. “Who needs the sky?”
You’ll hear them wonder. “We can’t see it. So?”
Raise up the record: “Cool things at one site.”
World Series! Super Bowl! The Final Four!
The All-Star game! Oops–college game tonight.
Finish the baseball later. Out the door.
Raise new foundations to the north and west
As triumphant years give way to malaise.
“No, no!” claim. “This new field will be the best!”
Hyping it up with such premature praise.
Then suddenly your suspicions are raised.
They can’t come back. Not this late. Not this far
Down in the standings. But the fans who praised
The team all along still believe. They are
Standing and yelling, raising themselves out
From their seats. And now the team too will rise.
The final weeks are what it’s all about,
The final push until you reach the prize.
Raise up your hopes. Lose game one-sixty-three.
But keep the hopes high. You’ll get them next year,
Rallying back at the last. Can it be?
Most of our hopes already beyond here
We win nevertheless, for we still care.
You thought you’d given up–this was your proof.
You’re not jaded. You’ll cheer when the field’s there.
That’s all you need to know. Raze now the roof.
.
For more of Ember’s marvelous writing, check out her blog, Lipogram! Scorecard!
Posted 10/19/2009
