THE MIDTERM ELECTIONS—WHO REALLY WON

by Gordon Gilbert

“There is, after all, baseball, in which time has its function, but does not rule.” —Bill Mayer, “National Pastime”

                                                                                                

 

It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs. 

The home team has yet to score, because the fix is in. 

The SCOTUS umpire is calling close balls as strikes. 

Nonetheless, the hometown pitchers have been outstanding. 

They have kept it close: only down by one run. 

 

Many are still hopeful, though some of the crowd,

anticipating another loss, have already begun heading to the exits. 

But then Mamdani swings at the first pitch, a head-high fastball 

down the middle, and lines a single! 

 

The hometown crowd roars, and those about to exit, 

but still inside the stadium, begin returning to their seats.

 

All hope now rests on the hometown hero, 

that old guy still on the roster, 

brought in to pinch hit.

 

As he slowly walks up to the plate, they chant:

Bernie! Bernie! Bernie! 

 

The first pitch is just outside. 

"Strike!" says the ump. 

Boos and curses from the stands.

Bernie glares at the pitcher, pounding the plate with his bat. 

Second pitch, high and inside. 

"Stee-rike!" 

Boos and curses louder than before.

Bernie looks back at the crooked ump, shaking his head. 

 

The pitcher delivers. 

It's at his ankles and outside, 

but Bernie swings down and lifts the ball high in the air. 

 

He lowers his bat and stands there, 

watching, as the ball soars into the stands. 

 

Then, as the crowd roars, Bernie trots around the bases, 

and tips his hat to the fans as he heads home.

 

Take a bow, Bernie, it was you who did it!

 

That's what we love about the game: 

 

It aint over till it’s over! 

Gordon Gilbert is a writer who lives in NYC's west village. He enjoys long walks along the Hudson River, finding much solace there during the pandemic. Afte years of almost daily bad news, he shares enormous relief with many of his fellow New Yorkers, hopes realized in the Midterms. He feels it's time now to give credit where credit is due. 

WISHING WARS HAD SOMETHING LIKE REGULATION TIME TO DECIDE THE OUTCOME

 by Steve Rodriguez

 

 

They’re so easy to start, plenty hard to end.

That’s why we prefer baseball’s nine inning rule. 

Hate it when bad guys bleed, but refuse to bend. 

 

Football’s fixed finite four quarters also send

the age old message for any war-like fool.

They’re so easy to start, plenty hard to end. 

 

Even a marathon contest will depend

on a set distance to score a runners’ duel.   

Hate it when bad guys bleed, but refuse to bend.  

 

Like a delicious shock and awe milkshake blend,

we now crave a shot of Desert Storm old school

form. So easy to bomb, plenty hard to end.

 

Were sudden death overtime gods to descend, 

we’d rush to strike a deal, discount enriched fuel

possession. Good guys would plead… bad guys, please bend.   

 

Narrow strait’s closure reflects a nagging trend—

warrior patience is a requisite tool 

when stuck in a stalemate that just won’t end.

Such a drag when bad guys bleed, but do not bend.  

 

 

Steve Rodriguez resides in San Diego, CA. He is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher.  

A WHACK FOR THE AGES

by Peter Witt

Just once I want to stand at home plate in the bottom of the ninth,
game tied, bat in my hand, staring at the pitcher, waiting,
breath still, for a 95 MPH fastball, hung out over the plate—
like a lion waiting for its prey to make a move.

Pitcher would wind up, just beating the 20 second clock,
as I uncoil and smash the ball off the barrel of my bat—
thunder cracking from the heavens--take two steps forward,
flip the bat, as the ball soars, a comet slicing through the sky—
as I begin a slow dance down the first base line, hands over head
like a conquering hero, as the thankful fans stand and cheer.

Rounding third I'd low-five the coach, then trot home
where after jumping on the plate I'd be engulfed in the joy
and comradery of my teammates, who'd slap my helmet,
my butt, my back, while our catcher sprayed a bottle
of water over my head.

The mob of players would whisk me away, like a gust of wind,
to the dugout where the cape of honor would be bestowed
around my shoulders, more slaps to the helmet administered,
as our first baseman pushes me back up the steps
to take a curtain call from the grateful fans.

I'd wink at my wife in the stands, like a conquering hero,
wipe the mist from my eyes, pause a minute, survey
the entire stadium, the weight of the moment settling in,
knowing that this was a lifetime dream made real.

Peter Witt is a Texas poet, a frequent contributor to The New Verse News and other online poetry web-based publications.

ROSES ARE RED

by Jennifer Schneider

I.               Roses

We’d watch 
on a twelve-inch screen,
antennas at awkward angles,
as temperatures, both internal
and external, rose

I’d discover butterflies
in stitched misses, baseball
bats that made magic,
and the sounds of pure,
unadulterated happiness

Batter up!

Play ball!

It’s going         going   going   gone!

a star
would swing at starlit
skies
and connect a nation

as hit   after hit
after     hit
made records.

water splattered on seeds

          petals scattered on soil

cleats carved flowers out of metal

nearby gardens
of roses drank water and returned
all favors

in full bloom,
a batter, a ball, and a smile
ran diamonds
and traversed miles
without speaking a word

until rose petals
blew in unexpected winds

NORTH          SOUTH           EAST  WEST

traded places with bases

            FIRST SECOND        THIRD

HOME,

a last,
last time          at bat
all-time           hit
leader              batter out

a ban

bats in the night sky
flapped wings
over an empty diamond
and the game turned

                                    forbidden

     in hushed whispers
of hurried glances       of hurried glances
on closed quarters       on closed quarters

            of hurried glances       of hurried glances
                            in whispers hushed
                                   forbidden

a quarter danced,
heads you win
tails you lose
dollars waltzed
in forbidden ballrooms

diamonds
in the sky dared

empty dance
floors promised private pairs

bases no longer mattered
records once broken no longer ruled grandstands

the 1988 season
turned cold     

a rose, once and still loved
a hit of over four thousand swings
a sure-hit Hall of Famer
of twenty-one petals
and over 4000 career-hit winners
banned

a rose
by no other name
never to come home 

 

II.             The Dowd Report 

The Dowd Report
returned,
from outfield,
right and left of center

a pitch
a wish
a curveball
that hit home plate

and batt(l)ed in order
reports corroborated

hopes for reconsideration
sizzled
like foul balls 

It’s going         going  
gone. 

no commissioner
of baseball
will take on the Hall of Fame
rules
as the cardinal, a bloody red,
watches from a nearby window
 

III. Play. Ball.

With nine innings during which to play ball, 
the ruse (and truce) can, at times, hurt 
as much as the fall.

#14. Ready. Set. Go. 

1.     Rank the following in order of time worth waiting: 
Grand slam breakfasts. World Series magic. 
Record-setting fast pitches. Season tickets.

2.     Describe the weight of a tie at home plate.

3.     Is the weight of the fall worth the wait for Fall?

4.     Which of the following words is least like the others? 
Scandal. Scolder. Skipper. Scrapper.

5.     Are fireworks more or less reason 
to look up than an unexpected shot to the outfield?

6.     Are banned substances more or less damaging
than banned betting?

7.     Is a bet to win a wrong?

8.     Compare and contrast bet with bat, 
fired with fired up, and rose with rise.

9.     If the slide into home plate burns, 
who’s responsible for the dressing? 

10.  For how long does a record's music retain its quality? 

11.  List an all-time greatest hit. 

12.  Are all greatest hits recorded? 

13.  Describe the measure of a rose. 

14.  Is a rose in full bloom more or less beautiful 
than a game won in extra innings under a full moon?

Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

SPITBALL MASTER HAIKU

Homage to Gaylord Perry, 1938-2022

CooperTunes

by Earl J. Wilcox

Stiches seams       grip tight
Gaylord’s secret sauce   in flight
Cy Young       Saliva 

 
Earl Wilcox writes from South Carolina, up the road from where Gaylord Perry spent his  last years teaching his grandsons the fine arts of pitching.

ALBERT & AARON: CIRCLE OF LIFE

by Earl J. Wilcox

Albert—Dominican Babe, hitter of 700 plus

round trippers, Ruth-catcher, Redbird with

a tilted Halo, grace under pressure, base-

circler supreme. Forever in our hearts. Adios.

 

Aaron—sweet, swatter, young Yankee, soul lad

of a team, Maris-catcher, heroic and historic hitter,

biggest apple NYC eye, iconic boy of summer.

Born to play on and on and on and on. Batter Up!

 

Earl Wilcox is the supreme Cardinals’ fan in South Carolina. His most recent baseball poetry appears in NINE: A Journal of Baseball History and Culture.

FIELD OF DREAMS 2022

by Julian O. Long

The Chicago Cubs beat the Cincinnati Reds, 4-2, on Thursday, but that was hardly the point. Major League Baseball had once again found its way to Dyersville, Iowa, for its Field of Dreams game, and a sport that sometimes struggles with its technological future got a reminder of how great the game can be when it is broken down into its simplest form. “It’s really magic,” Cubs catcher Willson Contreras told reporters of the field, which is a short walk from the one used in “Field of Dreams,” the 1989 film starring Kevin Costner. “It has some kind of energy that I think is real.” —The New York Times, August 12, 2022

We gather as to a shrine
as to a place where prayer
has been valid, not to kneel
but to play or to observe
a sacred game. Sound of our
own wheels drove us crazy
but the year Matt Carpenter
rose from the dead and flashed
across the great white way like
a comet there was still America.
There were still the boys of summer
men playing a boys’ game dressed
in the holy garments of acolytes, dressed
in gladiatorial splendor, stadiums
full or empty still arrayed about
a plate we still called home.


Julian O. Long is a previous contributor to The New Verse News. His poems and essays have appeared in The Sewanee Review, Pembroke Magazine, New Mexico Magazine, and Horizon among others. Recent online publications have appeared or are forthcoming at The Piker Press, Better Than Starbucks, Raw Art Review, CulturMag, and Litbreak Magazine.

HINT OF AN ELEGAIC SUMMER VOICE

by Earl J. Wilcox

for Vin Scully (1927-2022)

Some say his dulcet tones

Soothed the raucous hard ballers.

 

Some say his mellifluous vocals

Quelled the rabid Dodgers horde.

 

Others say his soothing cache

Of insightful swag saved the day.

 

The wonderful horde of baseball

Lore and treasure allured us forever

 

the day he arrived in Brooklyn &

the era he shined in his city of angels. 

 

We shall not hear again his storied

Trove of love for our nation’s game—

Our man with a voice for all seasons.

Earl Wilcox writes from his retirement balcony in upstate South Carolina. A collection of his poems—It Goes On, Life Poems—will be published in 2023.

ON GRAND SLAM BREAKFASTS (AT DENNY’S) & FRESH OCTOBER HITS (AT BAT)

by Jen Schneider

On Sunday, nearly six years after he took his final ferocious cut for the Red Sox, Ortiz reveled in his crowning baseball moment. An iconic figure in two nations—Red Sox Nation and the Dominican Republic—Ortiz was formally inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot. This, on the strength of a 20-year career that included 541 home runs. —MLB, July 25, 2022

imagine a morning meal / at a table of wood – oak or maple / of eggs over easy & bacon over done / imagine a stack of flapjacks, three pats of butter, cut in squares / all corners rounded, all linens tucked / imagine a mug of coffee, freshly brewed / bottomless pots / imagine a bleacher seat / freshly dusted, storied & stamped / of fingertips that wriggle then wrestle with cloudless skies / imagine a collection of wooden bats / of ash or maple / mahogany no longer in favor / imagine a man at bat / made of designated grand slam moments / and designer cleats on bases / mostly first / imagine five hundred & fifty-eight home run hits / of which eleven are grand slams  / fingers grip lumber, palms cradle knobs / balls tightly stitched / wriggle then wander / under and of cloudless skies of wonder / all souls soar / into an october night / imagine a man bigger than any moment / at bat

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

CAMPY

by Matt Witt

This month marks the 75th anniversary of Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in major league baseball, followed soon after on the Dodgers by another Black all-star, catcher Roy Campanella. “Campy” was the National League’s Most Valuable Player three times, only to have his career cut short by a car accident that confined him to a wheelchair. Photo: Matt Witt and Roy Campanella.

How simple the world seemed

when I was seven years old

and met Roy Campanella,

the greatest catcher of all time,

and he asked me about the team I was on,

and what position I liked to play,

and told me to keep practicing,

and didn’t tell me that when he was my age

he couldn’t dream about playing in the major leagues

or about the years of protests it took to change that

or how when Black men came home from World War II

many could no longer accept playing in separate leagues

or sitting in separate seats

or being called “boy” or much worse.

 

How simple the world seemed,

but later, much later,

when I read the history books that said that

Jackie Robinson and “Campy” got to play

because Branch Rickey, the Dodgers’ white general manager,

had the courage to finally see the light,

and that he trained them to behave themselves

so they wouldn’t cause problems for the team,

by then I was old enough to know

that there was more to that story.

 

Matt Witt is a writer and photographer in Talent, Oregon.

BASEBALL LOCKOUTS AND WINTER DREAMS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Baseball labor talks to end the lockout resumed Thursday for the first time in 1½ months with little evident progress during a bargaining session that lasted about an hour, jeopardizing a timely start to spring training. Major League Baseball imposed the lockout on Dec. 2 as soon as the five-year collective bargaining contract expired, a few hours after talks broke off. —Los Angeles Times, January 13, 2022

Your tinny voice throws me off.

You stand slightly slumped holding

 

a baseball bat. Your face is a bit

out of focus though my macular

 

eyes make most pictures seem dim.

I have trouble figuring where

 

you and I are: a ball park, a small

dugout, perhaps just a dirt yard,

 

the kind I know well from childhood.

We sit very close. I see the bat, its

 

stark beauty of slightly tanned oak

or is it maple or some wood I see only

 

in my dreams. We chat, but I cannot tell

what we say. Man, your quirky smile

 

radiates warmth through shaded

teeth of twilight in dreamland.

 

You talk a lot about a pitcher’s

knuckleball you once hit. I mumble

 

a reply and just want to know more

about Enos or Gibby—and the lockout.

 

You shrug then take a sliver-looking

candy bar from your pocket. You put

 

the bar in your mouth, blow, cheeks

slightly puff out. I feel & hear a wail

 

sounding like Wabash Cannonball

or an old gospel tune clearly off-key.

 

My Alexa gently nudges me with music

and some NPR news, mid-January morning.

 

Baseball lovers all will have no trouble puzzling out who appeared in Earl Wilcox’s dream.

A SATURDAY MATINEE OF SELECTED SHORT SUBJECTS

BILLIONAIRE SPACE(KU) DEUX

by Scott C. Kaestner

Cartoon by Marian Kamensky Tweeted by Advaid അദ്വൈത് @Advaidism, July 14, 2021. 

(1)

Shoot them into space

And redistribute their wealth

To heal our planet

(2)

Orbit the greedy

To build a brighter future 

For all of us here

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and forgetful mind magician who can’t find the rabbit or his hat. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.

In a Nutshell

by Melissa Balmain

Detail of a cartoon tweeted by Jim Carrey @JimCarrey, November 10, 2018.

“Big Jake, the World’s Tallest Horse, Dies in Wisconsin” 

—USA Today, July 6, 2021.

“Untethered to reality, T***p lies over and over about the 2020 election at CPAC” 

—CNN, July 12, 2021.

The biggest horse is sadly dead and gone.

And yet, the biggest horse’s ass lives on.

Melissa Balmain edits Light, America's longest-running journal of comic poetry. Her newest book of verse is The Witch Demands a Retraction: Fairy Tale Reboots for Adults (Humorist Books).

Ohtani of Oz

by Earl J. Wilcox

 

No hidden  smoke screens

No sticky stuff  in his glove

He pitches. Then hits. Bam!

 

 

Earl Wilcox—amazed at Ohtani’s wizardry—lives in South Carolina.