One last baseball poem for 2007

The Word Series is often called the Fall Classic. This year's wasn't exactly a nail-biter.

It always takes me a while to adjust to the offseason, and the following poem seemed especially appropriate.

Baseball and Classicism

by Tom Clark

Every day I peruse the box scores for hours
Sometimes I wonder why I do it
Since I am not going to take a test on it
And no one is going to give me money

The pleasure’s something like that of codes
Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say
So as brightly to picturize Eurydice
In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day

The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

Tom Clark, “Baseball and Classicism” from Light and Shade: New and Selected Poems. Copyright 2006 by Tom Clark, Coffee House Press

I do not share the growing resentment of the Red Sox. Yes, their payroll is huge and they are darlings of the East Coast media establishment, but consider the kids on this team -- Dustin Pedroia and Jacoby Ellsbury in particular-- who played such a key role in the Series. And Mr. Matsuzaka was certainly not paid millions for his bat (he had never had a hit in either the Japanese or American big leagues), but got a key single with the bases loaded. And there's the lovable David Ortiz, whom the Twins let slip away, silencing the network 'experts' with his solid defense. Even Julio Lugo, a low-profile, middle-of-the-payroll infielder, contributed.

I tip my battered old Twins cap to the Red Sox.

Off-season

What do we do now?

Read, I guess. Shovel snow or at least prepare to shovel snow. Make vacation plans. Daydream.

Sigh.

Baseball and Poetry

Gregory Luce, who writes poems and other stuff out in Washington, DC, calls himself "Enchilada" for unknown reasons. He alerted his readers to an article about poetry and baseball, which you can enjoy here. The article has, among other things, an excerpt from Donald Hall's classic collection "Fathers Playing Catch With Sons." That book has always struck me as a little too sentimental, but I still like it.


With apologies to Bernard Malamud and W.P. Kinsella, my favorite baseball-themed literary work is Mikhail Horowitz's little gem, "Big League Poets." ** A few selections from that book appear below. I have to admit they lack something without the accompanying pictures of the poets dressed in vintage baseball uniforms. I know next to nothing about copyright and fair use and such, so have no idea if I could legally post digital copies of a couple of those illustrations here. And since our #2 son took the scanner with him to college, it's just a hypothetical question anyway.

Vladimir 'Mad Dog" Mayakovsky was an infamous hit man for the Boston Bolsheviks and a well-red Red for the Red Sox. His stentorian batting stance revolutionized the game's rhetoric. Primarily a borscht-stop, he also played extreme left field.

Gerard Manley "Hoppity" Hopkins pitched with 'sprung rhythm' for the Jersey Jesuits in their glory days. Eventually his fastball lost its wimpling wings and he was, in his own words, "pitched past pitch of grief," a leaden echo of his former self.

A centaur-fielder for the Trojan Horsemen, Homer was the father of big league poetry, inventing the epic poem and the epic clout (which still retains his name today) with one great swing of his wine-dark bat.

Richard 'Beanstalk' Brautigan was a troutfisher in America. He also pitched for the Big Sur Confederate Generals and kept the batters fishing with his spitball soaked in watermelon sugar.

As every schoolboy doubtless knows, Long John Milton pitched for Paradise, and Paradise lost.

I hope the Rockies make it a competitive series, but my loyalties are still with the Red Sox, mostly because I spent quite a bit of time in and around Boston as a kid and because of Basegirl's estimable blog.

** Copyright 1978 Mikhail Horowitz; published by City Lights books

Ale and baseball

Rob Hardy, who recently returned from an extended stay in England, says he likes real ale. I've never been to England, but have come to enjoy ale and have been exploring some domestic brands. The eight ales listed below have all been sampled (read: consumed in sufficient quantities as to provide a more than adequate basis of comparison for someone who is not a connoisseur) in the past twelve weeks or so.

Sierra Nevada, Chico, CA (especially with Chico's favorite son Matt Garza on the mound)
Full Sail, Hood River, OR (first encountered in a waterfront bar not far from Giants stadium)
Summit Pale Ale, St. Paul, MN (all over)
Summit India Pale Ale, St. Paul, MN (ditto, especially at the Contented Cow pub)
Avalanche Amber-style Ale, Breckenridge Brewing, Denver, CO (during the Rockies' remarkable late-season winning streak, of course)
Schell's Pale Ale, New Ulm, MN (why is this hard to find when we live within spittin' distance?)
James Page Burly Brown Ale, Stevens Point, WI (a feature at The James Gang Hideaway)
Goose Island Hex Nut Brown Ale, Chicago (the father of a friend of my daughter is the CFO of Goose Island brewing, so we bought some just because we thought we should)

According to the kind folks at Cryptobrewology, an ale is a lager beer, except --

The main difference between yeasts used for lagers and ales is that ale yeast is a top-fermenting yeast, which means the yeast floats to the top and hangs around up there during most of the fermentation process. Lager yeast is a bottom-fermenting yeast, which means it hangs around the bottom of the fermenter. During both types of fermentation the active yeast does permeate the brew and eventually settles out on the bottom of the fermenter when it is done.

The other main difference in producing a lager or ale is in the temperature during fermentation. Most ales are fermented at a controlled temperature around 70 degrees Fahrenheit, although Sierra Nevada's Celebration Ale is said to be fermented at 65 degrees. Lagers, on the other hand, are fermented about 15 degrees lower, around 55 degrees.

I'll take their word for it. Baseball and beer are, of course, intimately intertwined: Miller Park, Coors Field, Busch Stadium. I remember going to a game at old Comiskey Park in about 1958 and being fascinated by the beer vendors hawking Hamm's. My uncle George worked for a time at the old Drewery's brewery (no kidding) in South Bend and would bring home a case a week, which he and my dad and my other uncles would consume in the back yard on a Sunday afternoon with a White Sox or Tigers game on the radio.

Right now, my vote goes to Sierra Nevada, with Schell's a very close second. Full Sail seems a little weak to me. Summit Pale Ale is very crisp -- good with pizza (B & L, anyone?) The Burly Brown and the Hex Nut Brown are, for me, just novelty brews. Good, though.

What say thee?

Life list

Bird watchers keep detailed field notes and are very proud of their 'life lists', accounting for every unique bird species they've ever seen. I am not a bird watcher (or 'birder' as they are sometimes called). I do have an old Peterson's field guide that has been used perhaps a half dozen times in 25 years. Instead, I collect ballparks.

In approximate chronological order (major league teams, including spring training and exhibition games):

1. Memorial Stadium, Baltimore
2. Comiskey Park (old Comiskey), Chicago
3. Wrigley Field, Chicago
4. Candlestick Park, San Francisco
5. County Stadium, Milwaukee
6. Metropolitan Stadium, Bloomington, Minnesota
7. Tinker Field, Orlando, FL (Twins spring training)
8. Oakland Coliseum, California
9. Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, Minneapolis
10. Comiskey Park (a.k.a US Cellular), Chicago
11. Doubleday Field, Cooperstown, NY
12. Miller Park, Milwaukee
13. Camden Yards, Baltimore
14. Fenway Park, Boston
15. Yankee Stadium, New York
16. Citizens Bank Park, Philadelphia
17. Angels Stadium, Anaheim
---- updated Sept. 2009 ---
18. That new ballpark named for some insurance conglomerate in Cincinnati (nice park, bad name)
19. Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles
20. Kauffman Stadium, Kansas City
---- updated April 2010 ----
21. Target Field, Minneapolis

There have also been dozens of minor league, independent league, high school, college, and amatuer games in various places. Each comes with a story. Cape Cod league games in the little resort town of Orleans were extremely pleasant. Stumbling upon an alumni versus student game in Hilo, Hawaii was fun. Going to the annual Labor Day weekend Minnesota amatuer (a.k.a. town ball) tournament was a slice of Americana. Meeting Wally the Beer Man at a Miesville Mudhens game -- priceless.

My grandmother would listen with great intensity and joy to White Sox radio broadcasts, so baseball was a big part of the soundtrack of my life as a kid, and it is reassuring to have the game, essentially unchanged (except for the damnable DH rule and artficial turf), to enjoy as an old dude.

My father will be 90 in a few months. His two most enjoyable outings recently have been to a vintage air show (he was a pilot in WWII) and to a minor league game in Indianapolis. He and I and many others use these memories to keep us warm in the winter.

Fenway

Tonight's elimination game at Fenway Park, starting at an absurdly late hour, should be good. In 2004, my youngest son and I took a little baseball trip to the east coast, visiting Fenway, Yankee Stadium, Oriole Park at Camden Yards, and the new stadium in Philadelphia (I don't even remember what it's called but it's named for a bank). Fenway was probably the most fun because:

1. Pedro Martinez pitched. He wasn't very sharp that day, but we sat near a man who lead cheers for Pedro that consisted of chanting "PayDRO, PayDRO, PayDRO; Ah HOO ah" and waving the Dominican flag.

2. The Italian sausage and pepper sandwiches at the ballpark.

3. The pizza at the ballpark.

4. The ballpark. We got to explore the place inside and out, wandering around during batting practice. I like it because it's old and cannot be anything else.

Camden Yard was also fun. We saw Justin Morneau hit a towering homer to right-center field, onto the brick plaza in front of the famous warehouse. The sound of bat on ball was unmistakable and brought an immediate hush to the crowd. There are lots of brass markers on that plaza commemorating home runs. I wonder if one now has Morneau's name on it. And Lew Ford (bye, Leeewww) gunned down a runner at home with an outstanding throw from deep left field. A Baltimore fan sitting in front of us screamed at the ump that the runner was safe, then turned to us, smiled, and said "Helluva throw."

Yankee Stadium was disappointing because it is kind of a dump. It looked like it had been deliberately neglected to bolster the case for a new stadium. Sad. It was a great game, though, because Toronto and New York took a scoreless tie into the ninth and Ruben Sierra (who would briefly become a Twin) hit a solo homer in the bottom of the ninth to win it for the Yankees.

And the park in Philadelphia was nice, although it has a soulless name and is stuck out on the edge of town like an unwanted relative.

I want to be at Fenway tonight, eating and drinking and cheering. I guess I can do all those things at home, but...definitely not the same.

The Wind Howls Like a Hammer

That's a line from a Bob Dylan song, which has little if anything to do with this poem.

Spotlight

I want to go back in time and be interviewed by Dick Cavett or David Frost. They would be their charming and impish selves and I would expound upon the pressing need for weed control in southeast Colorado or the plight of the blue whale or the mid-term elections. I would be sincere, compassionate, handsome.

I want to be interviewed on public television. Charlayne Hunter-Gault could look me in the eye and ask pointed questions about the middle east peace process or good restaurants in Sao Paulo or the state of Italian opera. I will be smooth, clever, confident.

I want to be the sole eyewitness when the local TV reporter runs breathlessly up and asks for my first-hand account. I’ll tell her about the getaway car and rain and sirens or about the daring rooftop rescue or the tense hostage negotiations. I will be accurate, erudite, unruffled.

I want to testify at a high-profile trial and be questioned by high-powered attorneys. I’ll awe the courtroom with riveting details about my boss’s indiscretions. I’ll single-handedly expose the corporate corruption, intrigue, and greed. I will be steely-eyed and relentless.

America will not be able to get enough of me.

And then I will disappear like Butch Cassidy into the Andes or the south Pacific or the Georgia swamps.

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Thanks for reading and commenting.