With all due respect to the late Mr. Fregosi,
he was one of the best infielders anyone could see.
However, his later years were plagued with injury.
Jim became involved in the most lopsided trade in history.
The New York Mets were involved in a pennant chase.
They needed a competent player to cover third base.
New York traded a right hander who could have been their ace.
Off went Nolan Ryan to the Angels in California.
He turned out to be the best pitcher in America.
With over seven thousand strikeouts and seven no-hitters to his name,
Ryan was worthy of entrance to the Hall of Fame.
This was a hard pill to swallow for fans of the Mets.
All of them look back on this trade with regrets.
Categories:
infielders, baseball, history,
Form: Rhyme
THE GAME
We would gather slowly
“toss” the bat, choose sides,
use the “least battered” ball,
the only bat we had.
The girls played too,
chosen because they
could play….often before
some of us boys. We
knew they were better
so it wasn’t taken personal.
The kid who wore the
Sears and Roebuck “Husky”
jeans played right field.
He was slow, he didn’t
get one of the treasured
gloves. He batted fourth,
cleanup hitter.
He could really hit.
The “infielders” got gloves.
The infield was an almost
grassless, rock strewn field.
The bases were scratched
into the dirt with the bat.
The “game” lasted forever.
As kids were called away,
“substitutes” would take
their place. Younger,
less experienced little brothers
and sisters, earning their time,
learning the game, touching
the heartbeat of summer.
The game would “pause”
for lunch, be put on hold
at supper, would be thought about,
talked about, dreamt about,
until …….
2/11/2017
submitted to – THE NATIONAL PASTIME – poetry contest
Categories:
infielders, baseball, childhood, history,
Form: Free verse
She steps up to the plate –smiling
The smile that fills you with hatred and embarrassment
When so often it is present.
This is no laughing matter.
The unliked by the team,
But still the needed captain.
The field is watching, waiting.
Bat up, she stances.
Eyes narrow.
The players tense –mechanically.
The pitch from empty space,
Creation of the batter’s mind,
Carefully crafted to tie the game.
The crowd groans.
She swings.
And off goes the game.
She motions to first.
The ball whizzes through the air-
First the infielders –chasing –running –pacing
Staccato across the red.
But they are no match –the ball continues.
She accelerates to second.
The inner-outfielders, the bridge, take over,
As if squeaks and honks can stop it.
They chase, to fill the empty space, but relent.
She crescendos to third.
The far-outfielders, at last,
The most important players of all.
Long, deep strides cover much ground,
But they cannot compare.
The ball is gone.
She made it home.
There is silence in the field.
And the crowd goes wild.
(In 8th grade, I really didn’t care for my band teacher, but loved band.)
Categories:
infielders, baseball, childhood, metaphor, middle
Form: Free verse