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Season Opener

by Dan Campion

MLB moves into new era: No players left from 20th century
—Associated Press headline

My fellow fans of certain age,
The AP sez we’ve turned a page:
No active player from our youth
Suits up this year. The broadcast booth
And gimpy knees have claimed our last
Gold Gloves and MVPs. The cast
Has turned completely over to
The understudies and a crew
Of stars we watched when fleet and hale
Now coaching from the dugout rail
And trudging up the dugout stair
To pull young pitchers in despair.
I wish we didn’t have to view
Behind this pillar, but we do.
So settle back and have a brew.
As Ernie Banks said, “Let’s play two!”

Dan is the author of Peter De Vries and Surrealism and coeditor of Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song and contributor of poetry to many magazines.

 

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Big Deals for Some in Baseball

by Stephen Jones

I have read: it used to be, in ancient Rome,
That some gladiators sat by the throne
And enjoyed brief immortality;

That, and some gold, also assured longevity.

Nowadays, instead of slashing swords,
Checkbooks and big bats are the words.
But I wonder: maybe it’s not so different.
The blue sky is still the same firmament,
And ballparks are not unlike coliseums—

Where ballplayers still get life-changing encomiums.

Harper, Trout, Machado, and some others,
Have much in common with their Roman brothers.

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The Oracles of Oracle Park

by Paul Kocak

Who speaks these utterances
These divinations obscure?
Is it legal to ‘steal’ your signs
Making the game less pure?
O, Oracles of Oracle Park
Keep us not in the dark
Except at night games
Enlighten us to gain winged victory
We beseech thee:
Will it be a four-seamer
Or a changeup
A knuckler or a screamer?
See that shift?
Grant us the magic
To hit ‘em where they ain’t
Or to Bondsian lift
The ball to McCovey Cove
O, Oracles of Oracle Park
Be ye seagulls on the Bay
Or Krukow, Kuiper, Miller
Flemming, Lurie, or Say Hey
Foretell, you Sybils, Ringed blessings
For Bochy’s valedictory mark
A parade down Market
One more time
O, Oracles of Oracle Park
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A Curtailed Cubs Season

by Laura Weck

These hallowed walls, decked out
Now as if for Christmas in reds and greens
That cloak a claret brick mantelpiece,
As their famous vines
Glisten with morning frost
In October at the Friendly Confines.

Nary a cheer now from the crowd you’ll hear
Though it’s been common in recent years
As ghostly winds subtly furl the leaves
Like a brilliant flag, but
Put away are team cleats and duffle bags.

Like an army, the ivy clings to its ramparts
As though to hold off the
Approaching cold and likely snow
That will blanket the park and
Blot everything out in complete and eventual dark.

 

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Baseball Aside

by Stephen Jones

The World Series, done and done;
Kudos to the team from Boston.
The game’s over, but not the reason
I still think about this past season:
Thing’s have changed in the MLB.

Maybe it’s the younger market; maybe
It’s all the numbers — analytics, metrics —
That management wields like accountants.
And maybe it’s the new-age managers
Who’ve now become front-office butlers.

Maybe it’s money ball, season by season;
Maybe it’s base-pinball and video expectation.

Nonetheless,
Baseball’s an all-time contradiction:
A timeless pastime, and yet with evolution.