Pitchers and Catchers, Writers and Poets

2/20/2012

Just say it out loud, the mantra that gets some of us through the winter.

Pitchers and catchers, pitchers and catchers.

The good time is upon us.

The batteries are reporting in Arizona and Florida.

The New York Times has a touching recollection of the first dippy spring of the Mets, when Casey Stengel tried to convince people he was managing a contender.

Robert Lipsyte, who was there in St. Petersburg that first spring, describes what it was like. My first team – Newsday – also caught the sweet goofiness of the Mets, telling people it was really all right to enjoy whatever was coming next from this motley bunch.

Pitchers and catchers. The Amazing Mets, Casey called them. Too old, too young, too marginal. But what a good time.

In the spirit of pitchers and catchers and rejuvenation and springtime, I am sharing a poem that popped over my transom the other day, from Brian Doyle, not the guy who batted .438 for the Yankees in the 1978 World Series or a bunch of other Brian Doyles, but a writer and editor in Portland, Oregon. He sent it to me; I send it to you, with his permission.

Poem to Celebrate the Day that Pitchers
and Catchers Report to Training Camp

One time years ago when I was a geeky goofy gawky teenager
I stood on the baseball mound and waited as our coach ambled
Out to give me advice or take me out, I couldn’t tell just which
From his face. Even though I had walked a couple of guys and
Another kid had hit a ball so hard it bounced through the fence
Before the outfielders could react, the coach didn’t seem angry.
Coaches on other teams got mad and threw things and shouted,
But not our coach, that I remember. When our coach arrived at
The mound I held out the ball, as we had been taught, and tried
To stay calm, but he said no no, stay in, you’re doing just great,
I just came out to talk a little. Boy, did that kid crush that curve
Or what? I haven’t seen a ball hit that hard in years. You notice
The sound the bat made? Kind of a basso whunk? Authoritative,
I would call that sound. Inarguable. Instantly identifiable, right?
I don’t think we spend sufficient time appreciating the sonorous
Aspects of the game, you know what I mean? The small musics,
You might say. Like how the fungo bat has a high note. Sounds
Sort of happy and relaxed, a before-the-game sound. And cleats
On concrete, that sounds cool. Clatter, that’s the word. So, what
Are you going to throw this next kid? I’d just stay with the heat;
Now, I know you say you have no control, and while that’s true,
You may actually suddenly achieve control – it’s not impossible.
And remember that every wild pitch causes trepidation and awe,
Which are not conducive to hitting. Hey, look a blue heron! See,
Right there, by the right field line! Wow. Okay, kid, go get them.
Brian Doyle

servidor dedicado link

8/26/2013 01:48:26 am

My first team – Newsday – also caught the sweet goofiness of the Mets, telling people it was really all right to enjoy whatever was coming next from this motley bunch.

essay help link

9/11/2013 02:53:49 am

The Pristine York Days has a against memory of the maiden dippy release of the Mets, whereas Casey Stengel dependable to assure persons he was managing a contender.

Louis vuitton replica link

7/15/2014 04:12:35 pm

I put a link to my site to here so other people can read it. My readers have about the same happy.

replica chanel link

7/15/2014 04:13:04 pm

Thank you for another great article. Where else could anyone get that kind of information in such a perfect way of writing?

Elliott Kolker

1/16/2016 06:23:12 pm

Pedro and Schillin
(and Pray God Is Willing)
TS Elliott: 3/04

Let the fire burn out
In your stove, we’re about
To head south for some Spring Training fun;
While the snow is a-melting
Back home, we’ll be sweltering
Under a near-tropical sun;
We’ll see who has switched to
A new team, and just who
Looks fit in their new uniform,
We will evaluate
Those who came to camp late,
Who has already blown out his arm;
Cause I think it behooves
Fans to study the moves
Made by teams during off-season deals
Like that team whose title
Last won was when Heidel-
Berg marched under Kaiser Bill’s heels.

Holy Cow! Pray for rain?
Must have pitched, Spahn and Sain,
Better get on our ponies and ride
To the local “hot spot,”
Get what’s there to be got-
Ten from all of those sources inside;
Look who walk through the door,
I ain’t met him before,
But my first baseball glove bore his name,
He broke in with the Sox,
Before treated with shocks,
He’s a legend in my Hall of Fame;
He approached me and sat,
Then he said, “By your hat,
You’re a Redbirds fan; wear it with pride!
I’ll give you the lowdown
On that team from Beantown,
Trust Me cause I’m Sane: Certified!

Nomar and Manny back,
You know how well they hack,
Sox will score enough runs, Heaven Knows,
If that closer they signed
This off-season’s the kind
Who can dominate, shut down their foes,
Then perhaps God is willing
For Pedro and Schilling
To lead Sox Triumphant Parade,
Cause when each takes the mound,
Fenway Park will resound
To those final cheers, too long delayed;
If these hurlers: supreme,
Answer New England’s dream
Ending Angst built o’er eighty five winters,
Then The Hub will ‘Chill Out,’
After decades of doubt
Like the ‘popsicled’ head of the Splinter’s

When they anchor the staff,
Red Sox have the last laugh,
For these two need but toss out their mitts,
To diffuse ‘Frazee’s Hex,’
Albatross ‘round their necks,
Choking them like roast beef at the Ritz!
They’ll demolish that myth;
Known to Sox kin and kith,
When the Bo Sox finish on the top,
But they better beware
Or the same fate they’ll share,
Contributing to team’s next flop,
When that next fateful pitch
Cause Sox Faithful to bitch,
Pampered teammates depart, one per cab,
And team’s left with that Curse
Sworn by Babe, adding worse,
Haunting them like that Whale haunted Ahab.

Who’d you have pitch that toss?
Who’d you warm for the loss?
Who’d wind up and deliver that throw?
Would you choose Alan Embry?
Mike Torrez? Bob Stanley?
Schiraldi? How ‘bout Canseco?
Every season’s the same,
Sox can’t win their last game,
And each year they just add more regrets;
Post-season’s suicidal,
Damn Yankees win title,
(Cards, Naps, Jints, Bums, Braves, Reds, Jays,
Mets)

Yes, I know Mr. Yawkey,
He will lend us his passkey
To access seats in the Green Monster,
Behind Yaz, who you know is
An All-Star below his
Neck, (Quote Eddy Stanky; I concur);
Didn’t ski with Jim Lonberg,
I didn’t spy on Moe Berg,
Didn’t read his new papers first, silly,
Didn’t say, ‘let them eat cakes
That are sprinkled with flakes,’
Like Bowie was told by Bill Lee,
When Fisk socked his solo
Once erstwhile Card Carbo
Had evened the score in Game Six,
Back in ‘Seventy Five,’
That hope could not survive;
In Game Seven, they ran out of tricks!

The N. L. plays St. Louie,
So you’ve just seen Dewey
Play outfield while watching the tube,
But, as you’d discover,
He’s a purebred Gold-Glover
In right field; he isn’t a rube.
Rube in Right: Cards Slaughter,
Post-War, Enos aughta
Not be running that ‘Country-Shit’ down,
Like Casey said to me,
But not Dom, Leon C.)
‘Ain’t but room for one of us to clown!’

What about Freddy Lynn?
I don’t think he’ll go in-
To the Hall, as his rookie year bode,
Yeah, the Rocket will go
In the Hall, even though
Every time he faced Stew, he’d implode!)
(Is his image destroyed,
By his using the ‘roid?
Has the Rocket’s induction crashed,
Like Bonds and Tejada?
Will the Hall just say ‘nada,”
Like they said to the Brothers who Bashed?!?)
Bucky Dent, Billy Buck,
Did you see how that schmuck,
Like Dick Stuart, ‘ole’d’ Mookie’s ball?
Be it Boone or Galehouse,
Surely someone will louse
It up for the Sox, who will fall!

So, hail Saviors a hack,
Pedro, Curt, re-enact
Past glories, long passed from the scene,
Go and raise ‘Holy Hell,”
Try to board an El Al
In the manner of Pumpsie and Gene,
But don’t ask Mo along,
(Think Sox miss Mr. Vaughn?)
If your bag’s overweight, it’s a fine,
Jackie-phobic would flip,
Mr. Jensen’s road trip
Is co

Elliott Kolker

1/17/2016 03:20:11 am

Pt ll:

Is completed by riding the pine;
So, Sox hope God’s willing
For Pedro and Schilling
To lead parade down Yawkey Way,
Do I see them winning?
If Curt hurls each inning
‘cept Pedro’s, he’s every fifth day!!!”

Jimmy Piersall, that’s great,
To you, I can relate,
By Yom Kippur we’ll know how it goes,
But, if Ex-Skip Gerbil,
Post-shove, is enshrined, he’ll
Go in a D-Ray, I suppose!

PS:

On the Tube: News Flash: Danger:
A Rod: No more Ranger;
Pin-striped; He’ll play Yankees Hot Corner;
Bo Sox wooed first; blew chance,
Nemesis called ‘last dance,’
One more Valentine’s Day to call Coroner!

Scrawl for Paul
TS Elliott: 3/05

What inspired this scrawl
Was a phone call from Paul,
My Bro, born with Sox in his marrow,

3
Who first swaddled his toes
In a pair of red hose,
His Grand Dad received from Ed Barrow,
(Last Bo Sox manager
At the helm when they were
Their last gonfalon furling,
Ed put Babe out to play
In the field every day,
More valuable hitting than hurling,)

Paul’s a Sox fan for life,
On the Fourth, plays the fife
In parade marching down Yawkey Way,
Though Paul moved to West Coast,
When “Down East,” he can boast,
He’s a DAR Son raised at Fenway,
Whose ancestral stock,
Disembarked Plymouth Rock
Long before there were witches in Salem,
Endowed by pedigree
With “Imperial We,”
Paul says, “Sox feel Schilling won’t fail ‘em!”

(In case you’re confused,
Only three persons used
“The Imperial We,” Mark Twain said:
Absolutes in their realm,
Editors at the helm,
And those people with lice on their head!
To that list I would add
Anyone whoe Grand Dad
Was present when the Bos beat the Bucs,
In the first Series played,
After peace had been made
Between the two league’s mucky mucks.
Before they’re the Red Sox,
Long before “Cursed with Pox,”
Till ‘Aught Eight,” Pilgrims is their name,
As new league occupants;
Braves: N.L. residents,
The AL team needs a local claim;)

So, if Granddaddy sits
Right beside Honey Fitz
And McGreedy when BoSox turn red,
I’d say such legacy
Is fruit on Family’s Tree,
Entitles “Imperial ‘We’,” ‘Nuff Said!

4 True Heart of a Champion:
Dedicated to
Johnny Keane, Bob Gibson and Curt Flood
TS Elliott: 3/05

Yo, Chief, stop the presses,
The Red Sox success is
Worth an “Extra” to proudly proclaim,
Nigh a century’s passed
Since we last topped our mast-
Head with “Sox Win Final Series Game!”
Put the champagne to chill
Next to Ted’s head, he will
Then defrost, tip his cap, drink a toast,
To Aught-Four edition
Of Bo-Sox Tradition;
“We swept Out ‘Curse of Babe,’” they can boost;

To get rid of their angst,
They swept back New York Yanks,
Then swept Cards, their Series nemesis,
Who beat Sox half the four
They’ve played, lost since “Babe Swore;”
Sweeping Birdies adds greatly to bliss!
Yes, Sox swept my Redbirds
Whose play evokes these words,
“Cards played like all-time worse Series team,
And though they did not quit,
They never seemed in it;
The World Series sweep felt quite extreme!

I salute the Red Sox
For destroying their “Pox,”
In a manner befitting their Curse,
But, before they grow smug,
And relapse with their “Bug,”
Here is my opinion, cast in verse:

It’s now a new season,
Each team has its reason
To think maybe this might be their year,
While every team’s fans
Are now making their plans
To partake of team’s “World Series Cheer!”

I recall Connie Mack,
When Al Simmons came back,
The next spring, after winning bat title,
“To be ‘True Champion,’
You must win second one
Defending your crown, this is vital!”
“I believe that I shall,
Replied Bucket-Foot Al,
And, indeed, as bat champ, did repeat,
So, if “Champions: True,”
What the Bo-Sox must do,
Is again avoid last game defeat.

I would be most remiss,
If I didn’t mention this,
‘bout Bob Gibson’s last World Series start;

When Cards’ Bubble went bust,
Gibby repaid the trust,
Of ex-skipper’s “Commitment to Heart:”
“Curt Flood caught too many
For me to say any-
Thing but I’m the one whose pitch grooved!”
“Upstairs,” Johnny Keane smiled,
When the Akasha filed:
The “True Heart of a Champ” has

Elliott Kolker

1/17/2016 05:51:55 am

The “True Heart of a Champ” has been proved!

Please, remember advice
Of poet Grantland Rice:
“The Intangibles are paramount!
If ‘True Heart’ leads the way,
Every game that you play,
Then the ‘Final Score’ ends in your count;”

Way back when the Romans
Hit “Homers in Gloamins,”
Mare Nostrum sun-fielded their portal,
So, no matter how high,
One may rise in the sky,
Remember that we are but mortal!

P.S.: Two Years On: 10/06

Two years on: How ‘Bout That!
Wearing my Redbirds hat,
For Game Five, when my Cardinals won,
When last out recorded,
Felt my Faith rewarded,
The Cards could be next “True Champion!”

P.S.S.:The Next Season: 10/07:

The next season, Cards fold,
Off-field drama grew old,
Can't repeat, don't compete in playoffs,
Red Sox their next crown,
Adding to team’s renown,
For astute player movement payoffs.

St: Louis Cardinals
Dedicated to: the 1964 World Champions
The Village Elliott: 7/11

Spring: Bar Mitzvahed year after Stan's through,
Fall: The Man said to successor, Lou,
For Birds to fly higher
I had to retire
From the bleachers I saw dream come true.

Elliott Kolker

1/17/2016 07:27:54 am

I'm self-taught on the computer. Because I had a fool for a student and an idiot for a teacher, I do things like this too often, like mistakenly "unsubscribe" so....

Comments are closed.

QUOTES
From the great Maureen Dowd:

As I write this, I’m in a deserted newsroom in The Times’s D.C. office. After working at home for two years during Covid, I was elated to get back, so I could wander around and pick up the latest scoop.
But in the last year, there has been only a smattering of people whenever I’m here, with row upon row of empty desks. Sometimes a larger group gets lured in for a meeting with a platter of bagels."

--- Dowd writes about the lost world of journalists clustered in newsrooms at all hours, smoking, drinking, gossipping, making phone calls, typing, editing.
***
"Putting out the paper," we called it.
Much more than nostalgia.
---https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/29/opinion/journalism-newsroom.html

Pitchers and Catchers, Writers and Poets

Categories

Buy the Book