Heard a long poem about baseball
last night.
The poet was a lean lantern-jawed guy, about my age—
that’s pretty old.
He’d been a better player than I ever was, I think,
playing American Legion ball when he was in high school.
He loved his memories of his young days,
playing baseball.
Never fails to warm the cockles of my heart
when I walk past a ball diamond with kids playing on it—
even better when no adults are present.
So, no reason at all now not to segue
to Pueblo, Colorado, Oldtimers’ Baseball League—
Memorial Auditorium assembly on an early June morning
to learn our team assignments and get our uniforms—
B&A Bootery one year,
green shirt and cap,
stretchy gray pants with little loops for the feet.
The poet was a lean lantern-jawed guy, about my age—
that’s pretty old.
He’d been a better player than I ever was, I think,
playing American Legion ball when he was in high school.
He loved his memories of his young days,
playing baseball.
Never fails to warm the cockles of my heart
when I walk past a ball diamond with kids playing on it—
even better when no adults are present.
So, no reason at all now not to segue
to Pueblo, Colorado, Oldtimers’ Baseball League—
Memorial Auditorium assembly on an early June morning
to learn our team assignments and get our uniforms—
B&A Bootery one year,
green shirt and cap,
stretchy gray pants with little loops for the feet.
Remembering when I smacked a double
(Lord knows I had few enough of those)—
after the proverbial crack of the bat, glancing up sharply
to see where the ball was headed;
making the wide loop to round first—as they say—
and digging hard for second—
did I even have to slide?—
standing, looking at the third-base coach for signs.
(Lord knows I had few enough of those)—
after the proverbial crack of the bat, glancing up sharply
to see where the ball was headed;
making the wide loop to round first—as they say—
and digging hard for second—
did I even have to slide?—
standing, looking at the third-base coach for signs.
Or pulling off the hidden-ball
trick when I didn't even
know the words, "hidden-ball trick"—
arranged beforehand with my first baseman, a lanky blond kid.
I don’t know if the two of us talked to the ump beforehand
(there was just one ump behind the pitcher’s mound who called the balls and strikes;
the coach who ran the whole league was in the dugout),
but after a kid got on, Blondie and I
had a consult a few steps off the mound,
and our gloves touched invisibly;
and after the dweeby twerp runner led off
and Blondie tagged him with the ball
(while I dissembled on the rubber),
and the ump called him out,
I jumped for joy!
How generic is that?
Or the way we’d round the bills of our caps that we got for free,
Kenny and Mike Macías and me.
If you hung around, you could get into games
when a team would forfeit for lack of attendance
and the game was played with ringer players.
One day I struck out Roy Roibal,
a big friendly guy I was on a team with another year,
and when I got up to bat I announced
I was going to hit a grounder and just keep on running,
and I did it and made it all the way home,
with runners scoring ahead of me.
At least, that’s my memory,
but maybe it was actually some other kid—I remember
him now, his name was John Gray.
know the words, "hidden-ball trick"—
arranged beforehand with my first baseman, a lanky blond kid.
I don’t know if the two of us talked to the ump beforehand
(there was just one ump behind the pitcher’s mound who called the balls and strikes;
the coach who ran the whole league was in the dugout),
but after a kid got on, Blondie and I
had a consult a few steps off the mound,
and our gloves touched invisibly;
and after the dweeby twerp runner led off
and Blondie tagged him with the ball
(while I dissembled on the rubber),
and the ump called him out,
I jumped for joy!
How generic is that?
Or the way we’d round the bills of our caps that we got for free,
Kenny and Mike Macías and me.
If you hung around, you could get into games
when a team would forfeit for lack of attendance
and the game was played with ringer players.
One day I struck out Roy Roibal,
a big friendly guy I was on a team with another year,
and when I got up to bat I announced
I was going to hit a grounder and just keep on running,
and I did it and made it all the way home,
with runners scoring ahead of me.
At least, that’s my memory,
but maybe it was actually some other kid—I remember
him now, his name was John Gray.
So then, why do poems about
baseball have to be so long?—
like one of those languorous, hot summer days in Pueblo,
playing in the limey clay,
Southern-Colorado wind blowing little dust tornados up—
so that my forehead was always streaked with dirt.
Not to mention the snow cone stand.
Because you want to fill your
poemlike one of those languorous, hot summer days in Pueblo,
playing in the limey clay,
Southern-Colorado wind blowing little dust tornados up—
so that my forehead was always streaked with dirt.
Not to mention the snow cone stand.
with the same stuff your life is filled with.
In memoriam, Bruce David Peck
In memoriam, Bruce David Peck
