 |
| @AsteriskTour on Twitter: 2020 Astros Shame Tour |
Squatting in the dirt was never anything
but awkward looking, humbling to say
the least for these hefty men, baseball’s
catchers, men strong—stand and squat
stand and squat—and willing enough
to spread their thighs, junk protected
by a cloth or metal cup, shins and ankles
and knees all grinding and grinding as up
and down he goes, bone against bone
taking a foul on his thumb, his shoulder,
crotch clipped by a fast ball often enough
to bring tears to his eyes and ours. What
mad magpie manager steals signs from
the heart of the team, players with such
unassuming names—Posey, Piazza, Yogi,
Molina, Campanella, Fisk, McCarver,
Bench. What hit or run or victory abides
such thievery, such, stealing a sure sign
of gutless guile, forever favoring hall
of shame, the hadesland of thieves.
Earl J. Wilcox lives in a small city in upstate South Carolina, where once the St Louis Cardinals had a farm team, and Sparky Anderson was the manager in 1965.