When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise coach say,
"Swing hard, and do it daily --
A thousand swings a day;
And hit behind the runner
Till it comes naturally."
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him tell me this,
"You try to hit all pitches,
And that is why you miss."
Advice? He gave me plenty;
I ignored his fine critique.
Now I am two-and-twenty,
And got released last week.
(A.E. Housman: "When I Was One-and-Twenty")
Don't tear the treasured ballpark down!
Long has it brought me joy,
As many a Brooklyn player has
That I've watched as a boy.
Above it rings Red Barber's voice
Admidst the crowd's deep roar --
The summer sounds that would be heard
By Brooklyn fans no more.
Her fences, dented by those balls
That Gil and Campy hit;
Pete Reiser's battles with the walls --
No, he did not submit.
No more would Carl and Snider speed
Across the outfield grass
Nor Reese and Jackie take the lead
In demonstrating class.
Oh, let the mighty field stand
As tribute to her past.
The loyalty of all her fans
Can never be surpassed.
Forget the California gold;
Let loyalty prevail,
For loyalty of Brooklyn fans
Can never be for sale!
(Oliver Wendell Holmes: "Old Ironsides")
Tell me not, fans, I am unkind
For saying my good-bye
And leaving your kind cheers behind
While I to new fans fly.
True, I have lost your sweet embrace
While on your rival's field;
But I have viewed the market place
And seen what it can yield.
Though my disloyalty is such
That all you fans abhor,
It's not that I don't love you much:
I just love money more.
(Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars")
Our Yankee Stadium:
the October cornfield-bordered
backyard diamond where my son
with teeth clenched
squeezes the bat,
waiting for my smoke.
I fire Koufax-quick
toward the bat lashing out;
the ball flies toward the apple tree
behind where my second baseman
would be if our yard
sprouted second basemen
as easily as dandelions;
it clears the tree and the fence
and drops into Indian summer's
dried corn stalks,
crackling like the explosive cheers
of bleacher fans.
Leaves spin like confetti
to honor his longest home run
in four years of batting against me.
I will have to bear down
as middle age nears,
to convince him tihat I'm still
the best pitcher around.
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Error, Little
League
- he dropped the ball
- and the sky fell;
cats
doused in gasoline
could not have sent screams
cutting toward him
so
loud, so painful
he
dropped the ball
into
the dust
where it will blow
around in the attic
of
his memory, mixing with
curses of coaches and parents
he
dropped the ball
that, caught, would have
made
him a hero in eyes
now
glinting steel in some
faroff world beyond that wall
called the first base line
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what I remember most
is my dad behind the rusted screen
back of home plate
"You can hit this guy!"
his voice not letting up
through four fast balls
(two misses swinging late,
two fouls on checked swings)
then the curve ball and the dying quail
into left-center,
the winning run sliding home,
my dad all smiles,
slapping backs in the bleachers
as if HIS single had won the game.
The two together make me think of October,
of shortstops dueling in Ebbets Field,
in the late afternoon shadows of Yankee Stadium,
while we argued who was better, Reese or Rizzuto.
Only fans of the Dodgers and Yankees knew. For the
rest of us it was a coin flip, like choosing between
two words with almost the same meaning. Astounding or
Amazing. Incandescent or Luminous. Rizzuto or Reese.
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