Baseball Poem Results Story aired: Thursday, June 26, 2003
Several weeks ago, we asked listeners to send in poems about baseball, the great American Pastimeat American pastime: baseball.
We got many submissions. Here and Now's roving poets Jim Behrle and Molly Saccardo helped us pick these poems for our show:
Softer Side By Eric Larson
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.
Teaching Mom Bronwyn Teixeira
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."
Dress Navy Blues M'Annette Ruddell
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.
BOB SHEPARD Bill Lattanzi
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.
