Ted Williams still was playing, when I was just a kid.        The Red Sox still had egos then, much larger than their id.      My brother was a Yankees fan, and when he yelled amid        The screaming Red Sox bleacher fans, I hunkered down and hid.               I miss those days in summer, when the Red Sox wins were rare.             Our fans were not like Yankee fans, we came to get fresh air.             And if, by chance, we won the game, a rousing shout would blare.             But when it came to losing? Then, the Red Sox had a flair.              No other team could snatch defeat from jaws of victory             Like our intrepid Beantown boys, at least it seemed to me.             Ninth inning leads meant nothing, though two outs and bases free.             One ground ball hit to Buddin, and the Sox would lose by three.               I've moved away from Boston. Fourteen years, two moving vans.             But "one more trip to Fenway Park" is always in my plans.             When office mates complain the Mets or Phils are "also-rans."             I say, "You would not last three days as true-blue Red Sox fans."               "You have to have," I tell them, "a capacity for pain,             Though you dream of the World Series 'til you're walking with a cane.             And when April comes, you pray your "pennant" hopes are not in vain.             And by August it is clear to all, you're legally insane."             Bob Spitzer ------------- Baseless My parents and I never cared for sports. Not in an academic hair already wind-smoothed, so no need sort of way but rather a hair catch for the bathtub disconnected and easily avoidable type. At six, ten and fourteen I hadn't conceived more about baseball than the plaster-batter frozen in swing which is Americaned into the whites of my eyes baseball laced by the veins, given to all of us by the relief of all of those incharge of children. Baseballs are the lumps in my throat: The new immigrants in our apartment, with two-year-old asking through friendliness about the sport, "What is it that you're thinking about ______" or "How 'bout ____" Beaver's baseball shatters the glass and lies on the floor. Jack Kerouac's finely adjusted imaginary league was as closely as I examined it until my first week in college -friends took me to a game. Me, hot-dogged and wishing for popcorn distraction Knew about bases and bats but only saw foreign movements and heads who had a religiosity that seemed rather idyllic to me Openly admitting I was the wasted seat, I felt indebted to an American embodiment that I didn't understand. And so, couldn't leave the stadium and see this new Boston I'd come 1,300 miles to see. Angry at baseball, bussing it back to the dorms I understood "college." And, reconsidered, that I simply don't have the dusty gloves or mustard-on-finger webbing succulence that it takes to make the hot-dogs taste so good. Lauren Rockvam ----------- One could not call us serious fans, Yet once a year we dirt road New Hampshire hicks join Boston denizens In pilgrimage: The city at its most innocent- eager, friendly, expectant, Slouching toward Fenway. As much as any stolen base, umpire’s call or home run The thrill is sensual- found through the nerves and skin. I have seen Carl Everett charge the pitcher, emptying the dugout. But the feel of peanut shells beneath my feet, The smell of bad beer from the raucous, sweaty man behind me, The satisfying, predictable organ music blaring, too loud, too tinny, but just so perfectly sappy- Now that’s baseball! The possibility of disappointment abounds. cannot give my heart to these gladiators. Their sad and seemingly inevitable demise, come September, proves more than I can bear. I wish them well, But for me the glory is always in that moment, before the highs and lows begin, When I pass from the darkened, cement-clad inner guts of Fenway, Up to the lights and the green and the fans, Full of anticipation, full of the hope of the game. Melanie Stephens --------------------- BOB SHEPARD   Transmigratory birds - Orioles, Jays, Cards - In town one day, gone the next. Our cities connect by rail by bus by train By plane, by wire and less. We move. Born in the burbs, 90 miles from your Calm, Bob Shepard: "Now batting.  The Centerfielder.  Mickey Mantle." And you were old then.  Doing your crosswords, Looking up at just the right moment, never Missing a line.  Your P.A. voice sitting kindly between the squawk of the Scooter and the Ol' Redhead, wised up, seen it all.   We migrate and grow by rail and plane and PF Flyer - running faster, jumping higher - Now we're minutes from Fenway, and Sox fans, too.  Proof that peace is possible; It's all a game.  And with my sons We sit, ghost of my Dad and we and them and watch Rootless and rooted, rooting, And listen for you, Bob Shepard, 87 I think you are, still there, In between clever McCarver and professional Buck. Look up, Bob.  Look up. "Number 2.  The shortstop.  Derek Jeter.  Jeter." The game goes on. Bill Lattanzi -------------- Teaching Mom      From the time he was born I dreaded this day He had that look in his eyes He wanted to play   They had come back to haunt me Those evaded gym classes I could no longer avoid it I need to buy safety glasses   Out on the lawn With a bat in his hand He recited the calls "Hit a homer, young man!"   Then he walks over to me As I weed in the garden "Mom, can you pitch me some balls?" "I beg your pardon?"   "I need to practice, Mom. I have a game tomorrow." The tone of his voice I hear hope, yet sorrow   What else could I do? I pick up the ball "Don't worry," he says "We'll do grounders, that's all." Bronwyn Teixeira ----------------- When Voices Rise from Distant Fields It’s that time of year, Again! When spring gives-in to summer, Soft scented light of spring Fading into the simmering stillness of lazy afternoons When voices rise from distant fields To hang upon the air And break upon the corners of my mind Like laughter spinning quietly from the restless slumber of some sinister dream. “Hit ‘em home Bill!” Floats effortlessly from the foot of the hill to strike my ear And stop me in my steps To bring me back home -- no apple pie But to my youth where fresh cut lawn And dandelions set my eyes watering And long drawn out sniffles, Stifling my head in the silent summer heat. Endless haze of blue With that sudden smack of ball on bat Like thunder claps and bolts of white upon the sky To fall upon my eye with bated breath And fear of being struck And then -- much to my dismay That arc of light upon the hazy blue Like the cracking of a whip Falling fast upon my face. I shutter now to meet the ball As it falls swiftly down the line And silent voices on the wind To heckle my demise With none but one attempted cry to will me to the ball: “Slow down Chris! You’ll miss the mark!” And sure enough it falls Beyond my reach above my head behind me on the lawn Too far a stretch of failure now for tragic sense of loss Too many times for all to see my failure on the field For anyone to comfort me would only rub the wound. But here I stand so many years And distant from the game And as those voices reach me as they rise up on the hill I let them rise and hover high To drift beyond my reach -- And arching up like thunder claps They fall back on the hill To go back down from whence they came To tease me now they must refrain And haunt me nevermore! To tease me now they must refrain To taunt me nevermore! Christopher R. Fletcher ---------------- 2008: On The Occasion of The Chicago Cubs' Impending Centennial of Futility Tinkers to Evers to what's the chance a hundred seasons could come and go so fast no one would celebrate even one of them Next year isn't a mantra it's an elegy for wasted time wasted efforts wasted hopes and for all those losses nothing is really lost no one died from the heartbreak no child went hungry because Ernie Banks never got his pennant Instead we grew up with our hopes either stunted or getting ever larger believing tomorrow will always hold what today never can Still going down to that damn old park because we take defeat as our due and know the team's reach never exceeds our grasp Their wish -- like our dreams -- is not of brazen prizes and spoiling success but noon on a July day when the breeze off the lake might be just a little bit cool Three Fingers Brown someone asked you once if you could have pitched better with all five I'll never know, you said So what's it like to win it all? Constantine von Hoffman ------------------------ GERONIMO AT SHORT After his surrender, Geronimo played baseball on the reservation. He seems to disappear into the land between the infield and the sweep of the grass. Even the giant old trooper at the plate has to look three times to find him. Age has cut down his range. Once, no line drive could escape his lunge. His hands were where rallies and soldiers went to die. He would play wildly out of position, just to show them. Spinning and shouting across the diamond to kill the sure hit. Now he must place himself well, hiding in the dust, stalking the vicious grounder. He has stopped trying for balls he knows he can't get. Just spits and curses his teammates. Even with all the years that follow him he never looks when he throws. Never. It is always on target, always where it needs to be. He relies on other things -- the crowd's rustling or the weight of the runner's steps -- to tell him what to do next. He is still dangerous at the plate. When the mood is on him, he can out wait anyone. With the count full, he will foul off eighteen pitches then get the walk by not swinging just to make the pitcher look bad. His hits are always hard, startling infielders or screaming into gaps. On base he disappears again, languid and silent, stealing without effort. But when rage or booze takes him, he plays another game. The anger makes him expect the ball's obeisance. Every pitch supposed to do as he tells it. He swings at bad throws, if he connects the other team is trapped in disbelief but mostly he jabs and misses, betrayed by both slider and curve. Drunk, he is sullen and uninterested. Even then they are still afraid of him and he draws intentional walks. Then he takes the bat with him and, standing at first, holds it like his old rifle sighting the outfielders and dreaming of days when. Constantine von Hoffman ------------------- SOX Bottom of the ninth one out to play. Who will be the winner at the end of this game day? The score is tied the scoreboard tells me. Who will be the winner? What team will the playoffs see? The game is tight, the batter with one ball, one strike. Will the ball be in favor of the pitcher or what the batter likes? Garciaparra at second, Mueller on deck. Will Manny send it flying or will he be out at first, with the ball ahead of him by just one sec? It's good, he makes it, Nomar heads home. The Sox go on to win it, At Fenway, their skill has shone. Tucker Hanson ------------------- Five Limericks Lamenting the Loss of the Dodgers   A young Brooklyn fan named Roger Knew the name of every last Dodger. But they went to LA, Which is too far away. So now he's a Dodgerless codger   Hitler, Stalin, and Walter O'Malley On one strip in some historian's galley. In 100 years cursed, They were the worst Of the 20th Century's tally.   Three cheers for old Ebbetts Field Oh what great games it did yield! O'Malley one supposes, Or was it Bob Moses? Saw that its doom  was well sealed.   Brooklyn's great "Boys of Summer" Rode behind big Newk's high hummer. But a pitch from the West Undid their best, And the rest of the story's a bummer.   With Campy, Furillo and Reese. Their glory would never cease! But even Jack's  slide Plus  the Duke's  glide Couldn't bring them a happy  new lease.     Don Stebbins ------------------ Opening Day I remember waiting for Spring: Baseball Time! Warming up our pitching arms, Listening to spring games, Debating who would bat fourth, Hoping the Sox would not fall into Another Lost Summer. I remember waiting in lines With tattered gloves and freckled smiles, Rushing for seats in right field, Near the foul pole, Where Ted hit them. I remember his spiral body Twisting like a dark branch, The ball soaring, The crowd gasping, cheering, As he loped around the bases, Chin pressing his chest, Then slipping into the dugout, So far from where we sat, Wishing he would tip his cap. Time makes a ceremony of memory: If he had smiled, Or stumbled rounding second, Or even touched his cap, Something would have broken The Spring of our Childhood. Today another season begins in Fenway: It is grey and cold as it always is In a Season of Penance. Ellen M. Burke ------------------------ THE GREATEST ALL-TIME TEAM Well, one could quibble, because this selection is timeless. Centerfield is Mercury. What could he not run down? Catcher, I'd choose Zeus. On a passed ball he could easily produce another from his thigh, and who would challenge him on the rules? At third I'd have Charon. Try to get past him, especially with those hounds that make pit bulls look like toy poodles. Venus--on the mound, of course. When she goes into the stretch, who could keep his eye on the ball? First base would be a mortal, Frank Chance-- let me explain, with reference to short and second, neither mortal nor immortal--Scylla and Charybdis: I just love the sound of the double play combination --Scylla to Charybdis to Chance, and it injects some degree of fallibility, which makes it more interesting. And obviously nothing is getting through up the middle, between those peaks of perception. Left field, Paul Bunyon. I like his stick. And right field, Homer. Someone has to write about it, epically. GIL HODGES I'm lost in the old baseball card-- Gil Hodges' puffy face--still an older guy I might know, some day, growing up, turning Universalist or Dodger. Gil and I--preserved in a ratio of years to desires that is its own fixed referent, mirrors en face, tossing their reflections back and forth, soundlessly, as the honest, unmistakable & reassuring hardball spanks a pocket's oiled leather like the amplified heartbeat from the gadget attached to my son's chest. The louder the smack of the ball, the greater the impact on the palm, from smart to stun, the whole range of pain as a kid I never noticed, perceiving only the percussion, the communion of ball and glove. --------------------- Softer Side An energetic volunteering mother with proud laugh lines apologizes for charging me a buck and a quarter for a hot dog. Last year it was only a dollar. I adorn my dog with condiments from color coded plastic squeeze bottles then head for the nose bleed section. Five rows back just behind the visitor’s dugout. The weather beaten wooden bench seats are still available for the price of coming out to watch the game, one of the last great bargains. On the first field a lanky young man plays short stop for a co-ed squad, his leering eyes betray his desire to get past first base in more ways than one. In field two a gent with close cropped gray hair and a belly kept mostly in check uses his enthusiasm for the game to play through the early signs of arthritis. Number three is dominated by little league, drawing the largest and loudest crowd of parents cheering for every grounder and exploding rapturously for a base hit. I watch field four; there on the mound a teenager studies the batter with an intense gaze usually reserved for portraits of civil war generals. In school, she blends into the background, shy and retreating. Tall for her age since 11, awkward and quiet, doesn’t run with the popular girls, not a member of the honor’s club. But here she shines, up on a pedestal of packed earth, her fast pitch slider a thing of legend and awe, if only to a select few. This is softball, and while the ring of aluminum may not inspire the epic weight of sentimentality the crack of hickory does, it has a music all its own. Baseball of today is a game played by millionaire athletes in billion dollar ball parks named after dot-coms facing federal inquiry. I prefer the softer, slower, more intimate game under yellow white lights on balmy June nights played for bragging rights and a small tin trophy, but mostly for love of the game. ------------------ Baseball on the Radio Take me out to the ball game; better yet, just get the radio. I carry Fenway with me when I listen to Jerry and Joe. They give me the lineup, the wind-up, the call, a change-up, a curve, a slow knuckleball. Their voices matching the rise and the fall, their excitement's contagious, they give it their all. They tell me how the boys are dressed, their stance, whose hair is dyed, Whose red stockings show all the way to his knees, who's grass-stained from a slide. They tell me how the grass is mowed, that the wind is blowing in, That the fielders have the sun in their eyes, the pitcher's in shadow up to his chin. They tell me who's warming in the pen (a new relief pitcher every day), That some young fan just caught a foul ball, and another's now hanging a "K". "The pitcher looks the runner back, batter twirls the bat and stands in. Three and two, with one man on, crowd standing for last out, and a win." I was on my bike on the Minuteman Trail, the day Bob Starr said goodbye. My radio was wet with tears - the Giamatti quote still makes me cry. I was listening on the car radio, while Lowe pitched his no-hitter. I didn't miss one sweet pitch - couldn't have seen the game better. Valentin turned an unassisted triple play, when I was in the bleachers once years ago, What I couldn't discern from my seat, you explained, thank you, Jerry and Joe. Keeping score at Fenway: was that a 4-6-3 double play? No, no, "The pitcher was covering, 4-6-1 on the put-out," they say. But nothing beats a summer night, sitting on the porch in the dark; Listening to the radio, you can hear the sounds of the park. You can hear it all: the roar of the crowd, boos for the intentional pass, The grunt of the ump, the wave coming 'round, "pea-NUTS!", the crack of the bat. I see the ball game better than most of the fans who go, And I can take it with me anywhere - I watch it on the radio. Laurie Coiley-Massing --------------- The First Game After 4 weeks of practice where chaos ruled The team is ready uniformed and clean Dying to show off their young polished talents They run out on to the field with excitement. The base players are set but the fielders need direction on where to stand The other team comes to bat just as excited. All that come to the plate chop at the air trying to hit the ball. The team is restless waiting for their chance at bat Our team yells with joy as they exit the field It is their turn at bat. They also fan the air in hopes of striking the ball Coaches on both sides bark orders, directions, and encouragement The parents are giving their own advise from the stands There is even a small wave or too. Both teams are distracted when they hear the sounds of an ice cream truck arrive Runs are scored on both sides It goes back and forth Balls are missed dropped and fouled The game is set for 6 innings or unit the light holds out In the end they are the victors Gloves and shouts are thrown into the air They all line up at home plate and shake hands Then make a made dash to the ice cream truck Jim Ciardelli ------------------ LEADING OFF Jackie Robinson model. Thick handle. Not one of those candlesticks. Get jammed and still do the job - still get good wood. Hands six inches north of the knob, six south of Louisville, Kentucky. Leadoff batter. Lucky me. I bat four times in nine, others three. I never really wanted to hit the long ball. (My longest shots fell far short of the wall.) Most of the time the long-ball hitters ran halfway to second base, then curled their path toward the bench. Once in a while, at about the same place they broke their pace to a home run trot. That was not the game I wanted to play. I wanted excitement from them all: the swing, the race, the tag, the call. Leaving the plate was not a run or a trot, but ninety feet of straining leather and flashing steel thrashing dirt. I choked up so far I could hit the empty places between the fielders or down the lines for extra bases. Or else I'd steal them. Longest leads my coach had ever seen. Headfirstbackinonthepickoffthrow. Get dirty...get ready. Go! John Langdon --------------- with a high leg kick his first pitch crosssed the plate   so lightning fast, the batter swung too late   no sooner than that, a wicked curve for strike two,   the determined slugger was almost through   he dug in fiercely, refusing to go down   the very next fast ball was near his crown   he'd dust himself off, for determined was he   it mattered not though----for there was quickly strike three!!!   the crowd came to a roar, all mothers and daughters, especially fathers and sons,   as they witnessed the power of one Bob Gibson J.R. Johnson ---------------- Dress Navy Blues   From sterling all-star athlete To a man with damaged back, My father found a new role On his beloved baseball diamond.   With heavy foam chest protector, Leather shin guards strapped in place, He ruled his Umpire’s Kingdom In dress navy blues with authority and grace.   Night after long summer night, We heard him call, “Ball.” “Strike,” With strong certain voice And fairness in his eagle eyes.   The fans, too, had their say, “Find your glasses.” “No way, no way.” But one who yelled, “Kill the umpire” Went too far one sunny day.   My little sister’s angry fists Pummeled his back as she said, “Stop saying that!” Sheepish man shut up and learned What we already knew. Umpires are fathers and heroes, too.   M’Annette Ruddell ------------------ Daly Field   The movie ends, Field of Dreams. Out, from theater darkness to noonday glare, Here, now, of all places, Here where we played those long summer days... I bawl.   My father never played ball with me, And then he died. He wasn't here with me that night In the shadows beyond the Park League lights When the drunken thug pounded my face til it swelled.   And here I was the batter, Those shimmering summer days. Two on two we played, Fatherless. Right field foul, Left field fair, Run the bases backwards, Pitch to your own team... I never learned to pull the ball. Marty Plovnick    --------- Fenway Park   Now, I have a daughter, A cursed Red Sox fan. She witnessed Lowe's no-hitter, Ran the bases, touched home plate. The baseball gods are kind these days. We walk the hallowed ground together On Father's Day.    Marty Plovnick --------------- Home cooking in 6-3-5 Scorer rules it a hit. Fans mumble. Stoic rooters spar, "Wasn't that an error?" Orchestrate a nasty rumble, some sass for the bashing. Uncorking "No, a hard hit ball." Moms, dyed and tanned settle in packs, holding fast to dreams to cures for game day thumps and comebacks for foulmouthed cracks too close to their young girls' tender worlds. Moms tuck blankets tight calling, " Turn two, ladies. Go get her." A white headed fan seated behind the plate sizes up the batting order, the call of the umpire. verifies rise balls and change ups. Bludgeoning the umpire endlessly, "Lousy blind-fool call." Addressing the pitcher, he calls, his fierce tone turns friendly The one-sided banter, straight to her- very familiar. His loud catcher's tone a warning. He's unchallenged intent. Mind changing time and place he calls out. Dust clutches his knees, his toes going numb, "Come, Kim, come. Come after her Kim." The pitcher kicks up dirt, grips the ball, jerks her pitch forward. The ball is a spinner pinballed back through the crisp spring air. Her glove up, unbarred. She grabs it in a whirl. to plant and hurl. Easy out at first. Mom's chatter fervidly, dykes yell out, men check the programs. Sacrifice moves runner to second. Pitcher's pigtails pout. fans rally from their lairs court her wares. Changeup, sits ups, drops. Next pitch hacked. Hallelujah girl! Hit straight to our shortstop, no one's fool. She's the brass, the strut, All-American pearl, a young jock leg out in a block. She gathers up the ball. Solid move. Stares down the runner. Fires the ball down to first. Batter caught one step short of safe. First baseman a winner, without word hurls the ball to third. Our fit avenger there catches and tags, a pretty sight in the flying black dirt. 6-3-5 Double play side out. Old men trumpet delight, dykes holler and the grandstand quivers with their yelps and banging. Moms whistle. Home team's up to bat. Bottom of the line up leading off. First baseman on deck swinging with rhythm pat. Will to win batter settles in. Square shoulders, set, ready. She hits it. "Short! we're gone." Fans pray for an error. It's bobbled. The easy ball dropped. Safe! She's on. Moms yellow, "Nice cut, they bellow." High fiving each other. Ruled a hit. What's called Home Cooking. Nettie McDaniel ------------------ ODE TO CLEMENS - FAILING Even when winning your twentieth Red Sox game I did not like you. You flouted our rules. Felt fans were irrelevant. Spat more than needed. Hitting the players - You call it your inside game. I just call it cheap. So I'm full of joy your magic win eludes you with Sox tied at first! It's short lived I know as Babe Ruth rolls in his grave. We'll stink by August But for a minute my Yankee angst is now quelled by your frustration. Julie Donnelly ------------------- opening day the anticipation of the moment draws you in. the months lead to days, to hours, to minutes. finally the moment arrives. the lush green pasture lays before you and the men play the little boys’ game. the sound of ash striking leather incites the crowd and everything begins again. you smell the smells and hear the sounds and it all carries you back to greener, more innocent times when those before you saw it first, heard it first, loved it first. it was the same to them then as it is to you now. that's what makes it what it is. that's what makes it baseball. nicholas giarratani --------------- Take Two Take me out to the ball game; you've heard that one before But when you go to see the sport, you'll find there's so much more The boys of summer take the field; you help to fill the stands You feel the energy all around, the excitement it expands The anthem is sung the crowd it cheers, and you just can't resist To sing along and make some noise, what could be better than this? The vendors shout about their wares to try to make a sale You raise your hand; you can't hold back, they find the shortest trail The first pitch is thrown; you just can't wait, to see what might come next Will he be safe? Will he be out? Someone shouts, "Hit the decks" The ball it nears you see it fly, you duck to get away A child screams from just behind, you've helped to make her day The game it starts to reach the end, the home team trails by one The last batter gets his chance at bat, and yes, it's a home run You leave the stands, go to the car, you start to head away And as you make your way back home, you think "What a great day"! Sherri L. Clyman ------------- Fans My dad was a boy whose most wonderful joy was cheering for Babe. But they sold him away. Them Sox! I fit under his chair while my father sat there, watching Williams the hitter. We needed a pitcher. Them Sox! A World Series at last! But the curse still was passed. My little son's thrill ended with Bill. Them Sox! You'd a-thought we'd a-learned, to the Great Apple turned. But our team keeps us hoping, in between all our moping. Them Sox. Our Sox. GO-O-O-O-O-O, SOX!!!!! Martha Russell Schwope -------------- All-Star, Hall of Fame. Roberto's sacrifice fly, far above the game. National Pastime America loves her national game-- stands are filled with people most every day; but the old ballgame is just not the same. Rosters are full of stars and the Big Name; fans come to cuss, do the "wave" and to pay. America loves her national game. When the big leagues were eastern, in the main, we cheered the "Seals" and "Oaks" minor league play; but the old ballgame is just not the same. We kids would play "choose-up" until dark came. Little Leagues and lights now keep night at bay; America loves her national game. With one bat, ball and mitt and raisin' cain, we took our turn playing in our own way; but the old ballgame is just not the same-- players brawl and strike for free-agent gain, forgotten is the honest fun. They say America loves her national game, but the old ballgame is... just not the same.   Shirley Money ---------------- Two fine athletes at the top of their game Two baseball giants both destined for fame One passed Sweet Lou's mark for most stolen bases, One threw no-hitters, seven the case is. One is a braggart, a whiner. He, pouting, Complained he made ONLY twelve thousand per outing. But the other, a gentleman, humble, yet proud Did his job simply, head not in a cloud The whiner was paid one point nine, that is true, but "only a thousand more dollars" make two When asked what the normal Joe took home in pay He replied "I dunno. Maybe one hundred K?" On the first day of May back in year '91 A record was set by each of these men But while one proclaimed "I am the greatest", look here, The other went home and opened a beer. Steve Skahill --------------- The Long White Line The long white line that separates all that is even, just, and fair from all that is spoiled, rank, and foul extends from home to the wall beyond which everything is gone Wait Outside: complaints about sluggishness from those Unaccustomed to anticipation Inside: 100 years of evolution barely perceptible, but Meticulously chronicled Still, I possess all kinds of Useless knowledge How my mother dots her “i”s How the Earth looks from space What can happen if a breaking ball hangs over the plate On a 3-2 count in the ninth inning How quickly the sun can fall below the horizon After 3 hours of watching As that sphere completes its orbit It is suspended for just an instant and All the fighters, all the screamers, all the restless grumblers Without thinking turn homeward and Wait Tate Forgey ----------------- GIBBY A lean black temple of big hands, hard flashing eyes, to his task connected like a heart is connected to music, a task no one could do like he could, a labor of hate, guarding the brown hill, sure every batter could raise him to Galgotha, if he dared drop the whip of his inside pitch, or turn the notch of intensity down. In '68, his ERA on the head of a pin, at thirty-two, a midwestern god not so far from home, too tall, it would seem, for a tall mound, profane and graceful, mean and precise, elegant as the distant river jazz, yet surely but slowly sinking like the moon into the heavy water. Tim Peeler STRUCK OUT ON MAIN STREET The old man staggered toward me like he was moving through snow. Mom had sent us to collect him from the pool hall, the last thing to do before supper and a little league ball game at the town park. My brother Bill and me grabbed him like we usually did, one under each arm. Only a block and a half to the house, we didn't want to be late; it was a big game. Pop was heavier than usual, not gliding to some honky tonk song he hummed. When he fell into the street, I hoped a cop would come along; we couldn't go home without him. He smelled like car oil and shaving cream and puke, and I could see the blood begin down the side of his face where he hit the pavement. Drag and wobble, drag and wobble; nobody stopped to help us; we were Lineberger boys; it was our job to get the old man home. Late for the game, the coach kept me out till the third; we lost. Afterward, Bill and me sat in playground swings and smoked the cigarettes we'd took from the old man's pocket. The moon was gone, and it was the clearest, darkest night I can ever remember. Tim Peeler -------------- Letting Grass define the Season by Timothy Gager A crack of the bat is more than the sound of a new season of spring melting of strong observation renewal or else life just stays the same Each year less long less lean A season of hope more grass growing then burned in the summer almost completed raked in the fall dying in winter until the afterlife reincarnation to cry Wait Till Next Year     -------------------- How It All Started It all started when Pedro threw a no-hitter on Opening Day. Nomar backed him up with a triple play deep in the hole and Manny Ramirez smashed the first of 90 home runs. Suddenly things got brighter. Flowers sprang whole from the earth and the cod swarmed to George's Bank. The war ended. U.S. Marines danced in the streets with handsome Fedayeen. (Jerry Falwell married them off while the Pope and the imams cheered.) Israel and Palestine agreed to share everything: beds, cities, streets, temples and mosques, falafel and coffee and tea. Air pollution stopped along with global warming and gum disease. The Sox won it all of course, beating the Yankees in three and the Yankees in four and the Yankees in five (they lost one just to keep the Series alive). Mia Hamm hit a grand slam to put it away in the ninth. Boston exploded with joy. Babe Ruth signed the game-winning ball and nobody sold it on E-bay. That's how it all started. At least, that's what I recall. Anonymous --------------- Fenway, the First Time Outside, the chaos of money changing hands, smell of hot fat, kids drumming on plastic barrels, discreet scalpers: three down front, want some? Inside, the mystery of the still field, open like a chalice. The pitcher on the mound gathers himself, pauses, a long pause, lets go and the batter uncoils and the ball goes up, up, past vendors climbing tier on tier lofting red trays of cola, rafts of peanuts, silver boxes of hot dog suppers, past exhortations to civility and moderation - "the use of coarse language will result in immediate ejection from the ballpark" - and the crowd begins to pulse anemone arms rising and falling harmonized by the play of running men. Vivienne Woodhead