Baseball Poems

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
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Tell you what I like the best --
'Long about knee-deep in June,
'Bout the time strawberries melts
On the vine, -- some afternoon
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For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
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Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
...

they found him walking along the freeway
all red in
front
he had taken a rusty tin can
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Watching baseball, sitting in the sun, eating popcorn,
reading Ezra Pound,
and wishing that Juan Marichal would hit a hole right through the
Anglo-Saxon tradition in the first Canto
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Fanaticism?No.Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
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A BEST FRIEND-Makes a lunch trade with you even if he doesn't love peanut butter and jelly.
A BEST FRIEND-Notices you standing alone by the fence and invites you to play hockey with the rest of the class.
A BEST FRIEND-Chooses you to go camping with him each summer.
A BEST FRIEND-Puts chalk in the teacher's eraser so you're not the only
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The burden of hard hitting. Slug away
Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could play?
Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!"
...

These are the saddest of possible words:
Tinker to Evers to Chance.
Trio of Bear-cubs, fleeter than birds,
Tinker to Evers to Chance.
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We wait in line for the 31 Bus. Me in my baseball trainers, sloppy Joe t shirt, eating a piece in jam sandwich holding my mother's hand. Here it comes the green and orange corporation taxi to the city. We pass the chapel, then kings park, whizzing down carmunnock rd like a rocket downhill to Hampden Park the football roars of the fans echo as we pass on this Saturday afternoon. The bus conductor stands on the open deck with shouts of fares please, he holds a fantastic ticket machine with multiple tickets of blue, red, green I'm excited as he gives me mine. We pass the gorbals it looks grim even in the sunshine. Then the Carrick ship berthed on the clyde. Arriving at St Enoch Square, next to the Railway station and the Glasgow subway which I ask my ma to let me smell the unusual scent of the air which comes up from the tunnels, it's amazing. Off we go to the shops for back to school clothes the fun of freedom is coming to an end.
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If you need TV for something to exist, it's not real.

You do not need TV for baseball to be real.
You can visit a baseball stadium and see baseball.
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Another baseball season begins and as teams vie for fortune and for fame…I'm reminded of the time I tried to teach my children….

THE INTRICACIES OF THE GAME
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Grumpy and Tommy

My grandson has a baseball
signed by Tommy Lasorda.
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It happened without any action on my part. All I had to do was just say, "Yes, I will go". Moreover, it was not my dream, but my friend's.
However, from a child, I have been an avid sports fan. My games of choice, and my childhood fantasies were baseball, basketball, and later on, football.

From a child, I had pictured myself on the field of dreams playing baseball. When reality set in, I was content to see myself in the stands.
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It didn't work out. *sigh*
What were the odds? Statistics...
- love isn't baseball.
...

BASEBALL

Walking by an empty stadium I was reminded the other day
of when we took our children to the ball park to watch grown men at play.
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Hey, I don't pretend that this is a poem.

It is not, but I am a baseball nut, intrigued by strange baseball facts, and I thought I would share these. I have left out the names of the players, replaced by asterisks. Each asterisk represents one letter.
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Inspired by Charles Dickens in Great Expectations
-Gayathri B. Seetharam
After a fair bit of research,
I chose this beautiful piece of writing by the man,
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superstar(stuporstar)
by Michael R. Burch

hey pete,
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