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Baseball and Writing

Marianne Moore

(Suggested by post-game broadcasts) 

Fanaticism?  No.  Writing is exciting

and baseball is like writing.

   You can never tell with either

      how it will go

      or what you will do;

   generating excitement--

   a fever in the victim--

   pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.

          Victim in what category?

Owlman watching from the press box?

          To whom does it apply?

          Who is excited?  Might it be I?

It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel--

a catcher's, as, with cruel

   puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly

      back to plate.  (His spring

      de-winged a bat swing.)

   They have that killer instinct;

   yet Elston--whose catching

   arm has hurt them all with the bat--

          when questioned, says, unenviously,

   "I'm very satisfied.  We won."

          Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We";

          robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions

and modify conditions,

   the massive run need not be everything.

      "Going, going . . . "  Is

      it?  Roger Maris

   has it, running fast.  You will

   never see a finer catch.  Well . . .

   "Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why

          gild it, although deer sounds better--

snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,

          one-handing the souvenir-to-be

          meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;

he could handle any missile.

   He is no feather.  "Strike! . . . Strike two!"

      Fouled back.  A blur.

      It's gone.  You would infer

   that the bat had eyes.

   He put the wood to that one.

Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.

   I think I helped a little bit."

          All business, each, and modesty.

        Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.

          In that galaxy of nine, say which

          won the pennant?  Each.  It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws

by Boyer, finesses in twos--

   like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-

      diagnosis

      with pick-off psychosis.

   Pitching is a large subject.

   Your arm, too true at first, can learn to

   catch your corners--even trouble

          Mickey Mantle.  ("Grazed a Yankee!

My baby pitcher, Montejo!"

          With some pedagogy,

          you'll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying

indeed!  The secret implying:

   "I can stand here, bat held steady."

      One may suit him;

       none has hit him.

   Imponderables smite him.

   Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds

   require food, rest, respite from ruffians.  (Drat it!

          Celebrity costs privacy!)

Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice,

          brewer's yeast (high-potency--

          concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez--

deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes,

   it's work; I want you to bear down,

      but enjoy it

      while you're doing it."

   Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,

   if you have a rummage sale,

   don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.

          Studded with stars in belt and crown,

the Stadium is an adastrium.

          O flashing Orion,

          your stars are muscled like the lion.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  Cobb Would Have Caught It

Robert Fitzgerald

In sunburnt parks where Sundays lie,

Or the wide wastes beyond the cities,

Teams in grey deploy through sunlight.

Talk it up, boys, a little practice.

Coming in stubby and fast, the baseman

Gathers a grounder in fat green grass,

Picks it stinging and clipped as wit

Into the leather: a swinging step

Wings it deadeye down to first.

Smack.  Oh, attaboy, attyoldboy.

Catcher reverses his cap, pulls it down

Sweaty casque, and squats in the dust:

Pitcher rubs a new ball on his pants,

Chewing, puts a jet behind him;

Nods past batter, taking his time.

Batter settles, tugs at his cap:

A spinning ball: step and swing to it,

Caught like a cheek before it ducks

By shivery hickory: socko, baby:

Cleats dig into the dust.  Outfielder,

On his way, looking over shoulder,

Makes it a triple.  A long peg home.

Innings and afternoons.  Fly lost in sunset.

Throwing arm gone bad.  There’s your old ball game.

Cool reek of the field.  Reek of companions.

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Polo Grounds

Rolfe Humphries

Time is of the essence.  This is a highly skilled

And beautiful mystery.  Three or four seconds only

From the time that Riggs connects till he reaches first,

And in those seconds Jurges goes to his right,

Comes up with the ball, tosses to Witek at second,

For the force on Reese, Witek to Mize at first,

In time for the out—a double play.

(Red Barber crescendo.  Crowd noises, obbligatio;

Scattered staccatos from the peanut boys,

Loud in the lull, as the teams are changing sides) . . .

Hubbell takes the sign, nods, pumps, delivers—

A foul into the stands.  Dunn takes a new ball out,

Hands it to Danning, who throws it down to Werber;

Werber takes off his glove, rubs the ball briefly,

Tosses it over to Hub, who goes to the rosin bag,

Takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers—

Low, outside, ball three.  Danning goes to the mound,

Says something to Hub, Dunn brushes off the plate,

Adams starts throwing in the Giant bullpen,

Hub takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers,

Camilli gets hold of it, a long fly to the outfield,

Ott goes back, back, back, against the wall, gets under it,

Pounds his glove, and takes it for the out.

That’s all for the Dodgers. . . .

Time is of the essence. The rhythms break,
More varied and subtle than any kind of dance;
Movement speeds up or lags.  The ball goes out
In sharp and angular drives, or long slow arcs,
Comes in again controlled and under aim;
The players wheel or spurt, race, stoop, slide, halt,
Shift imperceptibly to new positions,
Watching the signs according to the batter,
The score, the inning. Time is of the essence.

Time is of the essence.  Remember Terry?

Remember Stonewall Jackson, Lindstrom, Frisch,

When they were good?  Remember Long George Kelly?

Remember John McGraw and Benny Kauff?

Remember Bridwell, Tenney, Merkle, Youngs,
Chief Meyers, Big Jeff Tesreau, Shufflin' Phil?
Remember Mathewson, Ames, and Donlin,
Buck Ewing, Rusie, Smiling Mickey Welch?
Remember a left-handed catcher named Jack Humphries,
Who sometimes played the outfield, in '83?

Time is of the essence. The shadow moves
From the plate to the box, from the box to second base,
From second to the outfield, to the bleachers.

Time is of the essence. The crowd and players
Are the same age always, but the man in the crowd
Is older every season.  Come on, play ball!

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Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic

Ernest L. Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

 But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

  From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Honus Wagner

Andrew "Rube" Foster

Dave Bancroft