I wrote this a while ago. For my generation, watching baseball brings back a time when there were not as many rules, not a lot of refinements, no shifts, no designated hitters, no endless stats. But there was still poetry on the diamond and glory, short-lived, but real.
Left Hander
In the center of grassy ball fields on dusty mounds,
He bent, hard stared, rose unwinding, arched
His left-hand overhanded drop-down curve
Hurled from childhood to just short of glory.
But a teenage boy, slight of frame,
Gritting, stretching, delivering
Every pitch of every inning of every game
Every two days all season long until
Bicep torn, his arm gone, fastball dead, curveball flat,
The scouts left the fourth inning of his last game.
On to other fields, better prospects.
Him too.
Found work as a housepainter, an honorable trade
For an honorable man, and lived an honorable life:
Father, grandfather, the same wife,
His high school beauty, forty plus years,
As adult man steady, stable, as predictable, reliable
As his inside fastball brush back set up pitch
For the wide sweeping curve dropping like
Ripe fruit off a tree to flare the dirt
At the feet of a flailing batter;
Then back inside another gunned fastball
Smacking the mitt, freezing the hitter,
Who stands stunned at the speed
The lefthander, cunning, had reserved.
And the catcher up out of his crouch,
Slinging it to Jerry at Third
Who stabs, gathers, side arm whip to Rudy at Second,
Across to Gary at Short, hard zip to Tommy at First,
An exuberant yell and, let’s, just for style,
Around the infield a second time,
Firing it, catching it, hopping forward,
Throw it hard! Pop the pocket! And on around . . .
Then calmly completion by the confident,
Arrogant, dismissive underhand toss
Back to Lefthander who smiles, nods, turns,
Bends, stares again at home, for whoever’s next.
No film, no pictures of those days of perfection.
Handsome boys who would become imperfect men
But better men, for those hot days, for a season’s glory,
The summer choreography of bat, ball, and fielder,
Back when spectators kept score in a black folder-books,
Back when the musical chatter came from the stands,
Back when girls cheered boys on without regret, without guilt,
When it was okay to admire skills, strength, masculine physicality.
And as we bear the lefthander
To his final mound of dirt,
This one, too, regularly manicured,
We remember how he moved.
Even in Sunday slacks and dress shirt
You could tell, you knew,
You could see him throw high that left arm
Snapping off his unhittable curve.
And we leave him there in his quiet grave,
Handshakes and hugs all around,
And we walk off, heads quietly bowed,
Along our narrowing paths.
We bustle back to our lives.
Where there are no cheers,
No infield throwing it around the horn.
No Second to Shortstop to First to Third
And we don’t look back one last time
To where he lies beneath his last mound
Though we may think we hear the chatter of his infield
As he bends, stares, unwinds to the top of his wind up . . .
But, no, that’s not crowd noise; not anymore.
Merely the graveyard keepers, starting mowers . . .