Tag: Poetry About Sports

Dan Overgaard: “The crack of the bat”

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The crack of the bat

met my forehead, is what I remember,
and I went down, strange red tears running
across my left eye, and I got six stitches,
after, somehow, reaching a doctor in white.
I was about six, in Pennsylvania then,
and didn’t know anything about baseball
or the Fourth of July, but we had gone
to a parade in the neighboring town
and there were all these cars parked in thick grass,
and teams of horses following flags
and bugles, wagons and drums. I have no
idea now, what all I saw or what I’m
remembering, except for the deep grass
and the sunlight, then finding this broken bat
by the empty field, and taking it home,
how my friend Benny was thrilled by
a free bat, even if it was split, and wanted
to hit some rocks, pretending to be big leagues.
But I didn’t know about them, or batting—
how a marvelous swing could come around
full circle, with such power, after a rock.
I know I can say, for sure, that I saw the light.

About the Author: Dan Overgaard was born and raised in Thailand. He attended Westmont College, dropped out, moved to Seattle, became a transit operator, then managed transit technology projects and programs. He’s now retired, and probably gardening or catching up on reading. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Santa Clara Review, Across The Margin, The Galway Review, pioneertown, Poets Reading the News, Sweet Lit, The High Window and elsewhere. Read more at: danovergaard.com.

Image Credit: Marjory Collins “Greenbelt, Maryland. Member of the Greenbelt baseball team picking out a bat. On Sunday the team plays that of a neighboring town” (1942) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress

Jason Baldinger: “when pigs fly”

Posted on by asitoughttobemagazine 
when pigs fly

maybe pigs will fly
take a running start down st nicolas
into the wind like early sons of aviation
before crashing into the monongahela

maybe they'll launch from wadell avenue
a doppler squeal lost in a mothball sky
in this valley of work anything is possible
even the great american dream

stan musial could flat out hit
from the back of the batters box
bat sweeping across the plate
ball bouncing off left field wall
he hustles into second

he worked off seasons
a freight checker at us steel
his wife set up housekeeping
a few blocks from where he was born
maybe the world was smaller then

they were off to st louis
when the inversion started
smog veils, this valley nightmare
gossamer sunsets
halloween gas masks
a weight that sits
suffocating on your chest
it was no surprise
people started to die

it was no surprise doom
settled this city in smog
musial collected his parents
sent them to enjoy their dotage
somewhere in suburban missouri
he didn't come back
not to sit on a jeep on thanksgiving
as parades death marched
from the sons of italy
past the rooming houses
down hills that lead

down river to forbes field
cardinals in traveling grays
musial sends bob friend’s fastball
on a right field richochet
clemente fields it cleanly
fires it home
musial at second
tips his hat as pigs fly by

the valley of work gasps for breath
the rich will always get richer
the air may recover or kill more slowly
really, it's more lottery than dream

About the Author: Jason Baldinger is a poet and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA. He’s penned fifteen books of poetry the newest of which include: A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery), and This Still Life (Kung Fu Treachery) with James Benger. His first book of photography, Lazarus, as well as two ekphrastic collaborations (with Rebecca Schumejda and Robert Dean) are forthcoming. His work has appeared across a wide variety of online sites and print journals. You can hear him from various books on Bandcamp and on lps by The Gotobeds and Theremonster. His etsy shop can be found under the tag la belle riviere.

Image Credit: Detroit Publishing Co “The Bleachers, Forbes Field, Pittsburgh, Pa.” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress

Leslie M. Rupracht: “Slow Denial”

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Slow Denial

Years passed since I witnessed 
MS fracture Mom’s neurology, stealing 
her calligraphic hand, stilling her walk 
and independence, robbing all recollection. 

Unhurried decline gave rise to stroke that denied 
her swallow, silenced her song and motherly words, 
her last breath at age 74. Today, with each successive 
phone call from seven hundred miles away, 

I learn how my father’s eyes betray his art. Potter’s 
wheel not recently turned, blank canvases on the easel 
sit untouched, despite Dad’s nagging urge to paint, 
to create, before his waning vision decides 

it’s too late. Now 83, he also fights COPD. Worries 
over his final arrangements, forgets again and again 
to follow through. I gently remind. I politely nag— 
it’s a father-daughter round dance. Correspondence 

penned by an unsure hand and our déjà vu discussions 
underscore his blurred attention to details, numbers, 
and words—macular degeneration in cahoots with his 
mind’s random disposal of clear thought and memory.

Tonight, I call Dad. I wrote a poem about a ball game 
we went to when I was nine. This holds his attention. 
He says he looks forward to hearing it. Calls me a true 
artist for my writing craft. Mostly, I want to reminisce 

for fun and distraction from our legal to-do list. Tough 
topics simmer on the back burner as Dad cites the same 
Major League players I named in my poem—
Reggie Jackson, Thurman Munson, Willie Randolph, 

among them—our famous sports heroes who 
stood at the fence between first base and bleachers, 
signed autographs as we lingered in joyful awe, 
drenched in the summer rain.

Check out the previous poem referenced in stanza 6 “The Night I Lost My Souvenir Bucket Hat”

About the Author: Leslie M. Rupracht has poems appearing or forthcoming in Aeolian Harp, Asheville Poetry Review, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Chiron Review, K’in, The Ekphrastic Review, Gargoyle, Anti-Heroin Chic, Kakalak, a chapbook, Splintered Memories (Main Street Rag), and elsewhere. Editor, poet, writer, visual artist, and rescued pit bull mama, Leslie cofounded and hosts the monthly reading series, Waterbean Poetry Night at the Mic, in Huntersville, NC (on Facebook/Instagram @WaterbeanPoetryNightattheMic).

Image Credit: “Baseball game at Griffith Stadium, Washington, DC. The Washington Nationals are playing the Philadelphia Athletics” (1925) Image courtesy of The Library of Congress

Leslie M. Rupracht: “The Night I Lost My Souvenir Bucket Hat”

Posted on by asitoughttobemagazine 
The Night I Lost My Souvenir Bucket Hat 
	
  —Exhibition Game, August 8, 1977 
      MacArthur Stadium, Syracuse, New York
 
We three—
Dad, little brother, and nine-year-old me—
watched from the low-rise, general admission bleachers 
beside right field, a long walk to the concession stand 
and nowhere convenient to shelter from the rain, and 
it did rain that night we visited the ball park to see 
the New York Yankees rival their Triple-A farm club 
Syracuse Chiefs, who, after three innings, were ahead 
on the scoreboard before the rain delay, when Dad said 

the Yanks were letting the Chiefs win, rotating 
bench players while big name starters schmoozed 
at the fence-line, and luckily, that fence was close to 
us fans who sat in nowhere-land just to see our sports 
heroes because, let’s face it, we were there for 
the Major Leaguers anyway, our pounding pulses, 
giddy chatter, and broad grins underscoring delight in 
sort of meeting our favorite soon-to-be 
World Series Champs—

star hitter and right fielder Reggie Jackson, shortstop 
Bucky Dent, second baseman Willie Randolph, pitcher 
Ron Guidry, catcher Thurman Munson, among them—
signing autographs for more seasoned fans with 
the foresight to bring baseballs and ballpoints as 
we stood a mere Louisville Slugger’s length behind 
them, our eyes wide and jaws on the gravel, until 
the rain finally tapered off, antsy fans grew louder, 
and the umpire again declared,

Play ball! and when the ninth inning had barely ended—
the Chiefs having proudly trounced the Yanks 14-5—
our soggy trio mad-dashed through the crowd, Dad’s firm
hands guiding us kids by our shoulders to the restrooms 
for a pit stop, then onward to our trusty royal blue Ford 
van in the crowded parking lot, where I realized I’d lost 
my oft-worn, multi-colored Long Island Game Farm hat, 
too late to buy a Yankees ball cap and keepsake pen,
ask Mr. October to sign the not-yet-broken-in rim.

About the Author: Leslie M. Rupracht has poems appearing or forthcoming in Aeolian Harp, Asheville Poetry Review, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Chiron Review, K’in, The Ekphrastic Review, Gargoyle, Anti-Heroin Chic, Kakalak, a chapbook, Splintered Memories (Main Street Rag), and elsewhere. Editor, poet, writer, visual artist, and rescued pit bull mama, Leslie cofounded and hosts the monthly reading series, Waterbean Poetry Night at the Mic, in Huntersville, NC (on Facebook/Instagram @WaterbeanPoetryNightattheMic).

Image Credit: Russell Lee “Night baseball, Marshall, Texas” (1939) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress