I thought I might’ve been playing
in the Majors by now. That I’d be starting
for the Viking Penguins or the mighty
Atlantic Monthlies. When I was young
I was cursed with too much raw talent,
and never understood how good I was. Or wasn’t.
A couple of early reports called me “uncoachable,”
and I took this to be high praise,
and kept playing the game my way.
I had no intention of laying off the high, hard one.
I believe that swinging from the shoetops
and feeling the energy surge up my strong legs
and through the muscles of my unburdened back
was a paramount joy of the game.
If I hit the ball once in a while,
that was a real bonus. Not like the bonus
I didn’t get when I didn’t sign.
It’s true that I’ve sometimes become mesmerized
by the parabola. Or was caught philosophizing
on the vanity of human geometry
laid upon the verdant expanse
when I should have been following the ball
all the way into my glove.
I have a strong arm but often miss the cut-off man,
sometimes on purpose. I’ve thrown the ball
up into the sixteenth row to the kid
with the hopeful first baseman’s mitt
and drunk stepfather. He wanted it
and deserved it and the game was either
under control or didn’t matter or both.
I’ve heard that some of my teammates
didn’t like me because I didn’t have tattoos
or nipple rings but had a photo of Marianne Moore
on my locker door instead of some Pet of the Month.
That I kept a ball autographed by Geena Davis
on the shelf of my trophy room right next
to the one signed by Al Kaline. I guess
I have an abstract notion of what constitutes
a contribution to the game.
I’ve been branded an oddity and a renegade,
and even more cruelly, Mr. January.
As much as that was supposed to hurt me
I’m proud that I can think lyrical thoughts
about baseball when it’s twenty below.
And I’d be delighted to play on ice
in Greenland, like those realVikings did
so long ago. Mr. January that!
I’ve also lived for those times
when I could get lost in the grain
of my Louisville Slugger, and how good
it felt to stroke the hard, hard handle.
Sometimes I’ve loved the sport
but hated the game. Or the reverse.
But I’ve clung to those details
that I loved, those aspects that I cherish,
and this has kept me around all this time.
I never cared to amass statistics,
but liked how they were arranged
in long, neat columns.
And I’ve always enjoyed those terrific words
like “bloop” and “bunt.”
I didn’t do it for the money
and I didn’t do it for the team
or even for the fans.
I’ve played for and against myself,
and almost completely enjoyed the contest,
won more often than I lost,
and gave the game
the better part of my love
for over twenty-five years.
Which is not bad for a stubborn,
slow-footed white boy from Pontiac.
Good poem! There's an amazing honesty of self that runs throughout. 💕
Thank you for this Bill. When I get dressed and have my credit card, I’m all in!❤️ Happy Easter! He Is Risen!