Skip to main content

Seventh Inning Stretch





I want to be a fast ball:
a four seam or two seam rising, exploding fast ball
painting the black over the middle of the dish,
high and tight, good cheese.
The batter will sense I'm coming,
yet I'll hum by him before he swings. 
I want to be slapped into the glove
and rotated across the Ace's familiar hands
held, caressed by fingers that know every pockmark, odd stitch,
the factory's familiar brand
and then just hurled clocking in the high nineties or hundreds.

The top of the first, the bottom of the ninth,
bases loaded and the hitter standing proud,
the foul ball that rolls out on the third base line.
I want to be a routine double play,
a can of corn, a circus catch
the closer throwing the bunt out at first base,
the play that doesn't make the highlight reel.
I want to be a Texas leaguer, an infield fly,
Once I missed a pop fly and caught it in the face,
the runner made first and raced around to second base
as my eye bruised up and swelled shut.
It kept me from playing for a day or two.

I want to be a Louisville slugger,
weights draped around my neck  as the fireman warms up,
swings the bat from side to side in the hole.
I want to be the plugger.
I want to be the bat,
the varnished wood, the sweet spot,
the brand burned into the side, the white tape around the narrow grip.
The lucky bat for the home run king that swings it at a ferocious clip,
I want to be the first bat for a ten year old.

I want to be the tools of ignorance, the grass stained pants, the home team's offensive chants,
the catcher's mitt tied together around a ball to break it in,
the black stitched webbing, leather cross section.
I want to be the lightly padded part in the glove
 that makes the catcher grimace when he catches heat.
 I ducked into a fast ball once and took it on the cheek. 
Now I'm wary of grounders, line drives, and balls that come down with the sun behind their back
and still flinch when balls are thrown my way.

I want to be a baseball game,
the slow pace,
the Bronx cheer,
the reliever nailing down a victory in the rubber game,
the announcer calling names,
the field crew raking sand,
the vendors working the aisles
and the rhubarb and the pickle
and the strangers that will stand and sing,
the organ music warming up
"Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks,
I don't care if I never get back..."

August 19, 2015



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"That's Scaughtland for ya!"

The United Kingdom Up at the top of that map, basically the top half, is a tiny nation with a big footprint.  With roughly the same population as Minnesota, Scotland has a land mass the size of South Carolina, yet there are more people in the United States that have Scottish and/or Scotch-Irish ancestry than live in Scotland. My family is one of those. In the course of growing up, I was indoctrinated to celebrate my Scottish ancestry (primarily by my grandmother but we'll talk about that later).      So a year ago, my wife took a trip with her mother to Japan.  I looked at the pictures that she posted, and when I'd talk to her on the phone, I noticed something.  She was happy.  This is not to say she's always unhappy, but this was different.  She was having a good time, engaged in the world, curious, and happy-like no matter what the challenge.  And traveling to Japan with her mother posed some interesting challenge...

The Day the War Began

Originally written shortly after the protest in 2003, an audio of this was broadcast on KUNM on the year anniversary of the war's inception. Hopefully, reasons for writing about this will become fewer and fewer. The Day the War Began.             Three deep and two dozen across, the Albuquerque police department blocked eastbound Central Avenue. They wore Army fatigues, gas masks and helmets, held black batons, yet had no badges or name tags that identified each as a person, an individual. Judging from the surrounding army of police cars and police horses, and the four cruisers that closed Central further to the east, their function was clear. Not only do the authorities want to silence dissent, but they want to keep those not politically vocal from becoming aware of dissent at all.             One of the cops held what looked like a toy water cannon and swung it back and fo...

Top 10 Jazz Albums

So, Mindy and I have been on a Jazz kick for the better part of 3 months now.  At first, it was just listening to what we knew and then it moved into just kinda cherry picking, but finally, it was just too overwhelming, so I broke down and bought The Penguin Guide to Jazz Recordings  .   So, after using the book and listening, I assigned a homework assignment.   What are your Top 10 Jazz Albums of all time (so far)?  As much as possible try and pick albums and avoid picking compilations or "best of" albums because they are more often than not just compilations of singles and not complete works of art on their own like a good album tries to be. So here's my list: 1.  In a Special Way -Miles Davis.  There really is no words to describe how awesome this album is.   Though the critics define it as "Fusion," it really was "Fusion" before people knew what that was.  And while it was recorded ensemble (unlike a lot recording whe...