Baseball and Writing

by Marianne Moore

Fanaticism?  No.  Writing is exciting

and baseball is like writing.

   You can never tell with either

      how it will go

      or what you will do;

   generating excitement--

   a fever in the victim--

   pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.

	Victim in what category?

Owlman watching from the press box?

	To whom does it apply?

	Who is excited?  Might it be I?

It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel--

a catcher's, as, with cruel

   puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly

      back to plate.  (His spring 

      de-winged a bat swing.)

   They have that killer instinct;

   yet Elston--whose catching

   arm has hurt them all with the bat--

	when questioned, says, unenviously,

   "I'm very satisfied.  We won."

	Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We";

	robbed by a technicality.


When three players on a side play three positions

and modify conditions,

   the massive run need not be everything.

      "Going, going . . . "  Is

      it?  Roger Maris

   has it, running fast.  You will

   never see a finer catch.  Well . . .

   "Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why

	gild it, although deer sounds better--

snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,

	one-handing the souvenir-to-be

	meant to be caught by you or me.



Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;

he could handle any missile.

   He is no feather.  "Strike! . . . Strike two!"

      Fouled back.  A blur.

      It's gone.  You would infer

   that the bat had eyes.

   He put the wood to that one.

Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.

   I think I helped a little bit."

	All business, each, and modesty.

        Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.

	In that galaxy of nine, say which

	won the pennant?  Each.  It was he.



Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws

by Boyer, finesses in twos--

   like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-

      diagnosis

      with pick-off psychosis.

   Pitching is a large subject.

   Your arm, too true at first, can learn to

   catch your corners--even trouble

	Mickey Mantle.  ("Grazed a Yankee!

My baby pitcher, Montejo!"

	With some pedagogy,

	you'll be tough, premature prodigy.)



They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying

indeed!  The secret implying:

   "I can stand here, bat held steady."

      One may suit him;

       none has hit him.

   Imponderables smite him.

   Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds

   require food, rest, respite from ruffians.  (Drat it!

	Celebrity costs privacy!)

Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice,

	brewer's yeast (high-potency--

	concentrates presage victory



sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez--

deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes,

   it's work; I want you to bear down,

      but enjoy it

      while you're doing it."

   Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,

   if you have a rummage sale,

   don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.

	Studded with stars in belt and crown,

the Stadium is an adastrium.

	O flashing Orion,

	your stars are muscled like the lion. 

Posted in celebration of National Poetry Month.

Comments

[Linkmeister]

Wow. Takes me back a long way in my personal and baseball history.