Baseball Poetry

Dedicated to the writing of those invited to participate in a baseball poetry project. Those invited were asked to 1) go to a baseball game, any game and 2) create a poem, in any shape or form about that particular game or some memory of baseball, for the purpose of developing a collection. Most baseball poetry collections are ones culled from the works of famous poets; this one is designed to be more democratic, inviting some established poets and others moved to write baseball poems.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Elegy to Grandpa Hans

(After A. Van Jordan)
Peter Kahn


June 1970. New York. In your green cloth Lazy-Boy, smoke pop flies from your pipe. NY Times smears your hands grey. Tom Seaver pitches for the Mets. You call me to your lap. Hands are catcher’s mitts. Forearms, Louisville Sluggers. Silver beard grows thick like just clipped outfield grass. It tickles my baseball-smooth face.

July 1984. Ohio. I get home late. Chew mints like Skoal. Grandma’s long asleep. I hear ball pop off Strawberry’s bat. Smoke climbs basement stairs when I open door to watch 11th inning with you. Go to bed and dream of strike four with Susan Nay.

January 1991. Florida. “It must’ve been something I ate,” is what you tell me Grandma told you before she took a nap. You checked on her an hour later. She never woke up. After the funeral, we go back to the house. You don’t read the Times. Don’t turn on the t.v. Don’t light your pipe. Sit in your Lazy-Boy and stare until tears roll like a slow bunt down both our faces.

May 1993. Ohio. I visit you and your broken hip. You call for Grandma before getting back to your game. You’re batter up. You’re in Germany. It’s 1921 to you and you hit a triple. You’ve never played baseball, but you’re playing today. You tell me Grandma’s going to make you a bologna on rye sandwich. You smile like it’s 1969 or ’86 and the Mets are miraculous again.

June 1994. Ohio. We bring you over to the house. A field trip from your room at the Forum. Your silver walker won’t let you descend to your “cave.” We let you watch baseball upstairs. Mom even tells you it’s ok to smoke your pipe. It’s been 3 and ½ years since you’ve bothered.

May 1996. Ohio. I fly home to see you. You’re hunched over in a wheel chair. Your head snaps up when I call your name. Mom and Dad haven’t told you it’s your 11th inning. That cancer’s corked swing through your bones is what’s causing your legs to ache. They ask me to try to hold on to the secret so your spirits don’t dwell even deeper in the cellar. You say, “So, you’ve come from Chicago to say good bye to your Grandpa?” I lower my head; nod yes. Your head drops.