Baseball Poem

Guy Thorvaldsen

I've been really digging on the poetry so far. Very fun to enter into the wonderfully divergent minds of all these people at the same game . Here's my go at it. I got swept up in the strange world of the umpires.
And now I'm getting swept up in the strange world of blogging. My first!


Are umpires God’s children and, if so, can I have one?

The other night at Wrigley
with the Diamondbacks in town
and the stadium a soup bowl of heat and humidity
the Cubbie’s shortstop smacks a long ball to center,
above the ivy,
and it is momentarily lost
between a fans hand and fence top.
before it drops back on the field like a wounded duck

The batter holds at third,
but leans hungrily towards home
awaiting the umpire’s call
Triple or Home run?
The crowd also leans hungrily,
towards the group of four scholars gathered,
like a small flock of crows at second base.
four men who exist
like drifting shadows during the game,
until we need them,
like gods or priests.

In their conclave,
heads nod and bow to each other as if in prayer.
We observers are irreverent en,
roaring our happy opinions from the stands.
Home RUN! Home run!
Finally, one of the holy men separates from the
Pensive assembly, and with a generous sweep of the hand
become the maitre d’ (pope?) of Wrigley,
ushering the runner home.

We approve, of course, celebrate
the runner’s buoyant trot to the plate.
But one does not, approve, of course.
The Diamondback manager strides out,
Heading off the chief judge in that dirt purgatory
forty-five feet from first and second
We boo.
But are half-hearted.
We understand.
We’ve all stood there before.
Claiming the unclaimable,
begging for another point of view.
Really! the affair meant nothing.
Cancer! There must be some mistake.
Pregnant! But we took precautions.
Arguing vainly with our gods.
Digging in when we should be digging out
but can’t help ourselves.

But on the field we see,
the sage is gracious in his listening.
Bears with the managers ill-fated logic,
the release of suffering,
the brief saving of face.
until the man in black lifts his hand to the field and
sends the plaintiff back to his bench

But what bench do these anonymous judges return to?
To whom do they answer?
Have they a home base
or did they simply arrive on a green, baselined, pasture one day,
keen-eyed virgins without mothers,
cityless strangers, from North Dakota,
Arkansas, Utah… states without a team?

And tell me,
Who has really ever known an umpire?
Or heard of someone who knew one?
Yet they arrive to the ballpark on time,
an impassive sheen
on their wind and sun burnished faces,
Their jaws more squared-off
than the Buddha,
less angular than Jesus.
Perhaps stadium-like--contained, broad, and circular.

The face of a stranger who knows a few good things:
Ready to tell us
whether the slap
of ball on leather arrives
a quarter second before—or after-- the dull thud of cleats on canvas.
And if standing behind us, they would also tell us
of the dull reflection in our lover’s eyes.
of the truth that our body can no longer keeps pace with our dreams
that our children have outdistanced us.
And remind us that there is nothing,
no argument, no player, no negotiated contract, no second chance,
that can rescue us once a decision is true,
once the synaptic flow from umpire’s ear has traveled
to arm muscles.
to steady hands and shoulders which fly open
like the wing of ducks under fire.
And arms rise with either an imperceptible lift of the elbows
To the right forearm, levering a thumb towards the beyond
Or arms descending
to a palms down,
smoothing of the air

and the bodhisatva’s
Mouth opens,
tongue drops,
or rises,
releasing one of two holy sounds
that only the willing can hear.

Safe

or

Out .