2 poems

Dear baseball fans,
While on vacation these last two weeks, I had a great time pounding out some baseball poetry. Here are the two I had the most fun with. I'd love to hear reactions and/or suggestions.
--Andrew


The Fiction Writer Remembers Tommy Veryzer
Andrew McCuaig


In ten minutes, I could find more facts than I ever wanted
To know: His batting average, on-base percentage,
Birthday, height. Instead, I remember a rather short,
Slender, wiry boy-man, sandy-haired and freckled,
Not a power hitter, not much of a hitter at all,
But a sure-handed shortstop—or was it second base?
He spanned the years of my early adolescence,
Somewhere there in the mid-seventies, bridging
The gap between Eddie Brinkman and Alan Trammell.

So what a surprise to learn, thirty years later, that
Tommy Veryzer grew up with a friend of mine
On Long Island, played every sport well, and had
A very fine sister, also with freckles. Soccer was
His best sport, but he was quite a point guard, too.
His long two-pointer at the buzzer won the 1970
Long Island Championship—or so I imagine.

Champ Summers was another icon. Both names made up.
A loner in the clubhouse. An itinerant outfielder. The son
Of a Polish immigrant with an unpronounceable name.
Champ himself with just a trace of accent, and therefore
Mercilessly picked on in the schoolyards of Baltimore
Until one day he stood up and knocked a boy down
In the dirt. Then another, and another. The Champ.

All made up, I admit. But here’s something mostly true:
That night game I dragged my parents to the summer after
Seventh grade, when Champ delivered a clutch two-run single
In the bottom of the eighth to win the game. The Tigers
Holding their own in fourth place, we all scrambled
Raucously down the echoey ramps as if we had won
The pennant. Later, sitting hot and spent by his locker—
Alone even then—Champ’s wife called to say she
Was leaving him. The heavy black telephone stuck
To his sweaty ear. A man’s voice in the background. . . .
No, she hadn’t listened to the game; had never liked baseball
At all, only those arms of his.

The next morning I sat in our back screened-in porch
And pounded out my report of the game on my
Mother’s skyblue power typewriter, which jiggled
My orange juice each time I hit return. That afternoon,
I sold my story to the Detroit Free Press—or so I wished.

That these men were real—are still real, still alive,
As far as I know—I do not dispute. But, forgive me,
I prefer the hollow shell of memory—a voice here, an image
There—to dream myself into.



13 Ways of Watching a Cubs Game
Andrew McCuaig

1. It’s not about the game, but the view,
The context, the surroundings. Without the endless
Parade of people trotting up and down the aisle, blocking
Our sight, distracting us, there’d be little to take in.

2. There are four-hundred and thirty-nine Cubs styles
To choose from. But what mystifies me is the blue Cubby Bear,
Declawed, harmless, waiting patiently.

3. When the ball is hit hard, there is a slight delay
Before its crack is heard; everyone—it never fails—ooohs
In hardwired hope, which changes to a louder yell
If it’s hit out, or, far more often, a groan as the outfielder circles
Casually under and makes the out.

4. I feel sorry for the Cotton Candy boys, so much
Lower than the Beer Men or even the Peanut Guys.
With the heat index at 110 (night game, at that!) who
But a four-year old would want cotton candy? Plus,
There’s no way of shouting “Cotton Candy” in a cool way.

5. Despite our relatively good seats, the view is better
On the monitor above my head, twenty feet away. Watch
The field, miss the replay.

6. Are the hot dog buns a mass of wet mush
Only because it’s so hot, or are they always like that?
By the seventh inning, the infield dirt has not yet dried:
Humidity, or night game?

7. Nothing, not even Juan Pierre’s baserunning, is nicer
Than the sleek beauty of a woman’s white tanktop.
I like that one, and that one, and that one. . . .

8. I have never before sat in my own sweat-puddle, not
At a ball game, or anywhere. No, it’s not raining, nor is it better
If I don’t move.

9. What’s the score? What’s the count? Who’s even
Pitching? What inning are we in anyhow? Is that real wool
They’re wearing? Someone, somewhere, is watching this
Game in air conditioning, on a comfortable chair, with a beer
That costs less than six bucks.

10. When Dusty Baker comes out to pull his pitcher,
He carelessly steps on the first-base line. Meanwhile,
Somewhere in Florida, Sparky Anderson jerks awake.

11. A three-dollar water is not too expensive tonight. I like sitting,
As I am, on the end of my row so I can shamelessly grope each
Cold bottle before I pass it on.

12. It’s Seventies Night at Wrigley Field. David Cassidy
Sings “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with his son,
Who’s sixteen. The harmony’s perfect, and I’m filled with a newfound
Respect, which I keep to myself.

13. Before the ninth, the game safely ours, I climb
The ramp facing Addison, and join two women, one old, one young,
Eyes closed, taking in the best breeze the stadium has to offer. I stand
Between them, as if sharing the same blow drier, and look out over the city—
The bars and billboards, church steeples and water towers—
And remember that the Tigers are winning, too, and it means
So much more.