Narrative Baseball Poems | Narrative Poems About Baseball
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And there you were -
blue cap and jersey, white pants
bat held high above the shoulder
cocked and ready to swat one out
in that perfect stance of yours...
Shoulder turned, name half visible
(Proud you were to wear that name
Proud was I you wore that name)
Yes there you were -
smiling that smile of yours...
Cocky, confident, ready-or-not smile
The kind of smile of someone who
was exactly where he belonged
exactly where he wanted to be
in that very place, that very moment
doing what he was born to do
Fulfilling his destiny...
(Yes that's my boy out there
Yes he IS a good player isn't he?)
So there you were -
An all-star you were, oh yes, a star
a shining, glittering star but:
Stars are born to flame out, die
We are all born to die it is said
Seems only the best of us die young
and far too soon, too soon
You died too soon...
Copyright © Tim Ryerson
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)
Copyright © Joe Flach
It wasn't because he brought her flowers....
It wasn't because he wined and dined her....
She loved him because he spent hours on the computer
trying to track down the 1970 Brooks Robinson baseball card
for their oldest son's birthday
She loved him because he played with their kids,
even after a hard day at work...
baseball games in the big front yard,
cheering them on...
not getting angry when the youngest son
knocked a homer...
...straight through the living room window
Copyright © Carrie Richards
My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.
Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather,
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil,
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.
My father's attention was precious as gold;
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye;
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light;
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.
With patience and compassion
My father guided my life,
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.
Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.
Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann