Ping!
I hear aluminum,
Smacking leather.
It’s T-Ball time.
Winter to spring,
Changing weather.
I feel fine.
Pitchers and catchers
Are warming up.
In Arizona.
Umps and fans are
Are hollering BATTERUP!
In Florida.
Though a grandfather,
I’m a child again.
Playing in the grass.
She’s my granddaughter,
Playing in the rain.
So quickly seasons pass.
Snap!
1B Josh Bell
2B Juan Bell
SS Les Bell
3B Buddy Bell
LF George Bell
CF Cool Papa Bell
RF Beau Bell
C Herman Bell, Terry Bell
LHP Chad Bell, Eric Bell, Fred Bell, Lefty Bell, Ralph Bell
RHP Bill “Ding Dong” Bell, Cliff Bell, Gary Bell, George Bell, Heath Bell, Hi Bell, Rob Bell, Trevor Bell
MGR Jayce Tingley
Catchers are a con,
With the masks that they don.
They move outside pitches in,
Making the umpire’s head spin.
Like a leathery snapping turtle,
Their fat gloves make pitches fertile.
Fingers flash sneaky signs,
Keeping balls out of Wrigley’s vines.
But what catchers really hide,
Is that they have another side:
Their future after catching daily trouble,
May emerge as a post-playing days’ double.
Eyes darting, they see the whole field,
Imagining that someday they will wield
A baton like Connie, Gabby, Girardi, and Bochy,
And, of course, that wise backstop/leader named Yogi,
Who said, “It ain’t over till it’s over,”
Maybe meaning careers evolve forever.
Perhaps suggesting that a catcher is
To a big-league manager,
As a caterpillar eying the blue sky is
To an imperial monarch butterfly.
“It ain’t over till it’s over” is the last sentence of “Double Play,” Dr. Oza’s novel which will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press. Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University.
Lost more than he won.
But Bruce won when it mattered:
Managed October.
With apologies to Mars Bonfire and Steppenwolf
Get your players runnin’,
Head out on the basepaths.
Lookin’ for a Wild Series,
Whoever wins 4 of 7.
Yeah, D-backs and Rangers,
Make the World Series your own.
Score all your runs at once,
And explode the playoff brackets.
Like Malamud’s “Natural,”
You were born, born a wild card.
You can climb so high,
You’ll never wanna die.
Born to win Wild!
Born to win Wild!
In 2019, playing baseball’s cheaters,
The Nats won the Series on the road.
Still tagged as the sport’s deadbeaters,
The Astros carried the warts of a toad.
In 2023, with Bochy managing heroic,
The Rangers won at Minute Maid.
With Dusty chewing on a toothpick,
The Astros prayed and flayed.
Sure, they have 2017 and 2022,
But 2017 was banged on a trash can,
And 2022 was too good to be true,
For a team that warranted a ban.
Stealing signs left the ‘Stros stained
And unable to win at home.
Perhaps they should’ve remained
Hapless but honest in the Dome.
George Carlin famously suggested,
“In baseball the object is to go home.”
But when your Series ring is contested,
You are banished to aimlessly roam.
In memory of Louise Glück, 1943-2023, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature
When Louise was a young-adult,
The Orioles were high-flying.
Dave, Jim, and Mike were 20-game winners;
Brooks, Davey, and Paul were Gold-Glovers;
Boog and Frank slugged homers to grateful fans;
Earl shoved dirt on umpires’ cleats.
Days before Louise died,
The Orange Birds were swept.
Balty fans wept salty tears of sadness:
“We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.
How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?”
(Referencing Glück’s “Mock Orange”)
In memory of Louise Glück, 1943-2023, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature
When Louise was born,
The Dodgers were in Brooklyn.
Before Jackie, a name for the ages,
There were other colorful monikers:
Arky, Augie, and Billy;
Dixie, Mickey, and Frenchy.
This was more than a decade before
Campy, Jackie, Pee Wee, and Sandy
Won the World Series.
This was decades before
Clayton’s Los Azure dreams
Died with Louise’s laments into oblivion,
A pain salved with rebirth in Spring:
“You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.”
(Referencing Glück’s “Wild Iris”)
The Cubs of 1969:
A season with Hall of Famers,
But an ending not at all divine.
The Indians of 2005:
Chicago’s Pale Hose swept them
Like a beekeeper a beehive.
The Red Sox of 1978:
Bucky Bleepin’ Dent
Kept them from playoff’s gate.
The Blue Jays of 1987:
Many Canadians still mourn
Missing out on baseball’s heaven.
The Phillies of 1964:
“The Phold” phirmly closed
Access to the Fall Classic’s door.
Giants fans love their M&Ms.
Mays and McCovey:
Willie and Willie
Hit a combined 1,181 home runs.
Marichal and Mathewson:
Juan and Christy
Won a combined 616 games.
Madison and Matt:
Bumgarner and Cain
Led the team to three World Series.
But there is an M&M who never
Hit a homer,
Pitched an inning,
Or won a World Series game.
For 65 years Mike Murphy never
Had his name in a lineup,
Had his name on a baseball card,
Had his name balloted for the Hall of Fame.
But like San Francisco’s fog, Murph was always
In plain sight,
Serving first as a batboy,
And then as the Giants’ clubhouse manager.
Better than most, Murph understands that
Baseball’s Invisible Visibles
Make the game move over a season,
Mark the game’s evolution over decades.
