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 | Year Posted 2010
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 | Year Posted 2015
Let’s Play Ball
“America’s past time”, but as a child, I could have played baseball for a lifetime.
12092015 (Contest, One Liner 4) PS; Silent One
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
BASEBALL IS ENTERTAINMENT
I LOVE PUTTING ON A SHOW
I GIVE IT MY BEST WIND-UP
LET THAT BASEBALL GO
SOMETHING ABOUT A STRIKE-OUT
A FEELING THAT THINGS WENT WELL
UNLIKE THE HOMERUN PITCH
WHERE IT FEELS THEY RANG MY BELL
I CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TO FACE THE BIGGEST NAMES IN THE GAME
I BUILT THAT REPUTATION
I HOPE THEY FEEL THE SAME
I KNOW I GET A LITTLE WILD
BUT, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON CONTROL
NO INTENTION TO BREAK AN ARM
JUST TO LET YOU KNOW
IT'S LIKE ONE ON ONE
SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT
BUT IF YOU TRY TO BUNT ON ME
I'LL NAIL YOU ON THE SPOT
YES I HAVE A FASTBALL
NINETY-FIVE AND UP
I KNOW YOU KNOW IT'S COMING
SO GIVE IT YOUR BEST CUT
I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY CURVEBALL
IT MIGHT JUST BACK YOU DOWN
CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TRY TAKE THAT PITCH DOWN TOWN
I LOVE MY JOB OUT ON THE MOUND
I LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
I LOVE WHEN THE BATTER AT THE PLATE
CAN'T HIT MY BLAZING FASTBALL
I LOVE THE PLAYERS ON MY TEAM
WHO LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
IT'S A THRILL WHEN BATTERS TAKE MY CHALLENGE
AND CAN'T STICK MY NASTY CURVEBALL
Copyright © Michael E. Harris | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2012
J.D. AND SONS……… 4.3.16
JD WAS A MAN FROM PEELTOWN TEXAS OF HUMBLE MEANS AND RAZOR SHARP IQ, DEFT IN MANY FIELDS AND FRIEND TO MANY, TALKING DREAMS PLAYING BASEBALL IN THE HOT TEXAS DAYS, MANY
DREAMING OF A DAY HE COULD MAKE HIS ESCAPE FROM THE FIELDS TO A MORE SOPHISTACTED LIFE WHERE SUITS THE NORM AND MONEY THE CHATTER OF THE DAY, EXCITING.
ONE DAY HE DECIDED TO FORGO 2 REMAINING YEARS AND JOING UNCLE SAM FULL FILLING HIS DUTY TO COUNTRY AND HONOR THOSE BEFORE HIM, UNSELFISHLY.
COMING BACK TO THE STATE SOON OFFERS WERE POURING IN SO MANY TO CHOOSE FROM AND BABY IN THE WAY HE DOVE BACK INTO THE BANKING WORLD WITH FERVOR!
JD, MY DAD, MY FRIEND, ALL OF HIS FAMILY WORRIED FOR HIS HEALTHY GAME PLAN OF SURVING THE WOE HE MADE IT BACK INTACT MIND BODY AND SOUL.
FINDING HIS LADY ONE THEY BECAME UNITED IN MATRIMONY A SHORT TIME LATER, YOUNG LOVERS SEEING THE WORLD TOGTHER ALL WAS POSSIBLE FOR THEM, A FRESH BEGINNING.
SHORT TIME FROM THERE I DAVID ENTERED THIS SCARY NEW WORLD BAY OF PIGS WITH JFK STANDING FIRM USA MEANT BUSINESS, RUSSIA FOLDED HER HAND.
BROTHER BORN A FEW YEARS LATER FULL OF SPUNK AND MISCHIEF OUR FAMILY WAS COMPLETE TRAVELING NORTH AND SOUTH OUR JOURNEYS MET NEW ADVENTURES, PLENTIFUL
TIME PASSED AND MOM MOVED ON HOWEVER DAD TIM AND I REMAINED PLAYING BASEBALL, DAD WATCHING AND COACHING AND WE FELT A LOVE AND BOND FOR ONE ANOTHER, ALWAYS
DAD AND I BECAME CLOSER AND FATHER AND SON AS THE GRAY SHOWED IN HIS HAIR WHILE DAVID’S THIN MUCH TO HIS DISMAY FRIENDSHIP GREW, TALL
BROTHER TIM DAD AND I ENJOYED MANY A BALLGAME WHILE EATING GRILLED BURGER, CHICKEN AND THE LIKE, TIMES SEEMED ENDLESS WE LAUGHED, YELLED AND LOVED EACH OTHER WITHOUT HESITATION, REAL
YESTERDAY WE LOST OUR DAD, OUR LEADER, OUR FRIEND WHO LISTENED TO US AS HE NORMALLY ATE THE TASTY MEAL OF THE DAY, OUR HEARTS ARE SADDENED KNOWING WE WILL LAUGH NOR EAT NO MORE HERE, EARTH
DAD LOVED US PROBABLY MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THIS WORLD AND ENJOYED EVERY MINUTE HE GOT TO SPEND WITH “HIS BOYS”, PROUDLY.
DAD WE LOVED SPENDING THOSE DAYS WITH YOU TOO WATCHING, EATING, LAUGHING AND TALKING WE THOUGHT THE TIME WAS ENDLESS FOR HERE BUT IT WAS NOT TO BE.
THANK YOU FOR LOVING US AND SHOWING US LIFE AND ALWAYS BEING OUR FRIEND WE COULD NEVER REPAY YOU AND YOUR LOVE WILL ALWAYS WITH US IN OUR HEARTS,YOUR SPIRIT REMAINS.
© 2016 DAVID J. MITCHELL
Copyright © DAVID MITCHELL | Year Posted 2016
A triple-A minor league team,
most remember Bull Durham the movie.
I, the most spectacular firework set,
in the stormy sky. The kind of lightening show,
I think I shall never see again. The stands erupted
with screams and yells
“Chicken! Chicken! Chicken”
Well, we are in the South, with their choice of entertainment.
Looking left and right, wondering at the uproar.
The ground wet, the sky still, a mini diamond
for a balking bird, a mascot of sorts,
running bases, while the crowd cheers.
The game back on, after sweeping away flood waters.
Every home run produces red eyes and a snort, steam
aggressively fighting from the nostrils of the famous bull.
My young nephew,
proudly walks away with a team jacket.
Whether the game was won or lost, I don’t remember,
except we had such fun. Our American past time,
memories last forever.
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017
The nuts had been cracked, all nuggetting towards the street,
Many women are seen fighting in the market place,
1983 history repeating itself in a bloody combat.
All the alliances loosed at the sighting sight of a Buharified disposition in an unprepared change.
Poverty and unemployment as graduates' license,
Hunger raping the stomach of many masses publicly.
Negro Senators shot blanket eyes at fellows,
Ground prepared as a battlefield for bulleted words;
Alas! Nigeria is naked and no clothes to cover her.
Black innocent blood drizzles like dews in morning,
Avengers here whilst the Bokos slice souls like yam!
Alas! We're buharified in a buharificated change,
Our fearful eyes osibanated with a yemified tears
At the decorated mad country painted by our elders.
Toh! Another woman beheaded by the cows,
raze racism aflamed in religious secular circles,
Another macsare at the food basket of the nation.
Lol! Butchered atmosphere hurriedly claiming the sense of many who claimed to have dined with God.
Nigeria has gone mad again, 1983 repeating itself!
Have you forgotten about our father's prophecy?
Have you forgotten Fela with his cow on suits?
I have seen a woman whose garment is rot of rags
Dancing in the street whilst her children watched joyfully cuddling deceit in their old sack!
The weight in her wait weigh more than insanity!
In high climax, her breath is stifled in suspense.
The thorns have been planted in every lips to close,
We are buried in a living silence by the righteous leaders; alas! No more farmers but famine here.
The oil has gone bankrupt with the representaTHIEVEs fonding lies with old lyrics,
Corruption dinning at every corner of the street;
Oh! We're buharified with a buharificated change
While sultry sand mock our feet at the sight of the youths suffer and die silently in their tens.
Boom! Boom!! Boom!! We hear every day as if we are in the military regime, truly we're buharified.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016