December 16, 1975 (I was 30)
A Throw
Perceiving the impending fall,
the equestrian rises out of the saddle
clearing the mount, and extends
body lines along the lines of force.
Upon impact, the faller
absorbs the energy
rolling a line as long as possible
converting vertical motion to horizontal.
Whereupon assessing bodily damage
and usually finding none permanent,
the pedestrian retrieves his mount
and ignores tomorrow’s papers.
from this week in October, 2006 (I was 61)
Can you get up? How many fingers?
You got your bell rung. Can you stay in?
It’s true. It happens. I saw stars.
Not stars exactly, sparklers.
Shit ya I can stay in
What the hell kinda langwidge is zat?
Cool dark night of my senior year
Took it on the chin, mighta been kicked
Part of the game, happen zall a time
Back in the huddle call signals for the play
really nice night someone carries the ball
Threw a block in there like I was suppose ta
Kept on goin’ and things took me with ‘em
Sometimes seems it was most real
Combined waking with reality of dreams
August 15, 1994 (I was 49)
Such intensity of competition found in petty amusements,
international humiliation and murder in World Cup Soccer.
Some actually dream about Dream Teams. The homeless do not
care if the city loses its franchise. The stadium could
become their city. Ball players strike and no one laughs.
Team owners need special rules to prevent themselves
from paying high salaries and special dispensations
to declare their game a National Treasure to protect profits.
Boys stay boys until they are cut from a team.
Some never make it. Prosecutors agree great running backs
cannot be truly criminal in our truly criminal sense.
I say stab any tennis player in the back
and break the knees of any skater who dares to play
before a paying audience. Then arrest the audience for solicitation.
March 12, 1974 (I was 29)
Spring Training in the Bush
That man in Canada did not die
With the bayonet at his throat
He turned and ran weaponless
Sliding across the border like stealing second
We’ve been hitless ever since
Still we blame the stranded runner
Most of our hitters got drafted
Some signed heavy contracts
How many outs we got?
Still no score
Maybe we could’ve won with more like him
Bunt and run men
Give him the sign
In the end it don’t matter whether you struck out
Or whether you were thrown out at home
February 20, 2010 (I was 65)
Sport without spectators
other than those who play
with rules made up that day
and one team only
split to fit the game
among whoever came
Athletes without memories
of yesterday’s win
and cheating was a sin
It’s a wonder how
so far from here
we were young every year
November 15, 1975 (I was 31)
play
all the men organize themselves
along the line of scrimmage
something will happen soon
the diagrams have been made
the chalk has talked X ‘s and O’s
patterns and routes assigned
ball handlers designated
situations have been reviewed
huddles held
(offensive) and (defensive)
signals called options mentioned
deceptions implied formations set
each now alone hears everything and sees it all
knowledge awaits the snap
October 23, 2018 (I was 73)
D.H.
Designated Hitter Lawrence in the World Series
sits in the dugout while the team’s afield
too slow and inept of glove to seat someone else
or so valued at the bat left here to think of that
which three or four or five times in the game
must batter the pitcher’s claim to fame
A hit is a single line
a double is a rhyme
If a triplem can cripplem
hitting home is the whole poem
Birthed so near the Nottingham thicket
you may have thought he’d stick to cricket
October 14, 1973 (I was 28)
It’s the season
Such an arrangement
Each week the same
every night a football game
or sports page to examine
rules scores and end zones
It’s all timed with commercials between
It keeps a man at peak efficiency
moving along with the game plan
Minor injuries are sustained without notice
Chronic aches are a part of the competition
The champion forgets fatigue
forgets injury and he functions
Sit back and relax
You’re in good hands Where the rubber grips the road
Fly the friendly skies
It’s the water from the mountain streams
and it’s football
from this week in October, 2012 (I was 67)
The intolerable babble on pro football telecasts
is easily muted and replaced with audio of choice
the Vivaldi channel off I-tunes for example
introduces a new amusing milieu
as does the big band jazz channel
Lyrical tunes may be apropos or juxtaposed
Nevertheless synchronous gems dazzle
more often than stale commentary
in stagnant format from tired announcers
and insipid remarks of sideline annoyancers
More remarkable the transformation of commercials
where carefully clipped images
carry context that doesn’t necessarily sell
July 28, 2013 (I was 68)
I was on the football team in high school
I weighed one hundred twenty-seven
I was on the bowling team
carried an average of one twenty-seven
I was on the golf team
until I shot a 127
played centerfield in American Legion Baseball
hit .127 but fielded better than that
Once I hit a double but tripped over second base
I was a sub on the basketball team
We were losing to Coleraine by thirty-five
Coach put me in with 1:27 on the clock
I quit the next day told the coach
it was taking up too much of my time
I skated very well and liked hockey
but we didn’t have a hockey club
I learned all the strokes in a pool in California
but in Minnesota we had no swim team
So in college I majored in physical education
until I got good grades in English
and took up skiing by myself
May 15, 2009 (I was 64)
The Credo of Hypocrisies from pro athletes
makes us all look like idiots:
We’re grown men here
we take responsibility for our actions
We create extraordinarily high
expectations for ourselves
We have impeccable work ethic
We always give 100% but
we know how to step it up when we have to
I live for the pressure of game seven
It ain’t trash talk if you can back it up
I know I am blessed and ordained by God
I believe everything happens for a reason
We’re done talking about it
We were embarrassed
and it called into question the character
of some of their players
We’ve had tough ones to swallow before
but this one just snowballed
It wasn’t nerves
it was just a matter of settling down
We regret that it happened but
we’ve put it behind us and we move on
The message to kids should be
you don’t have to talk like that to be successful
May 6, 1973 (I was 28)
Phil Jackson plays squeaky shoe basketball
He is no ballet dancer
though he does versions of the same moves
He is either too tall or too thin
He plays frantic basketball
his nerve ends are exposed
He came into the third playoff game
and for ten minutes everyone was the same
All the Knicks all the Lakers
squeaking squeaking offense defense
and Phil knew how to squeak best of all
squeaking steadily turning the game around
April 10, 2014 (I was 69)
I’ve been called out looking
I’ve gone down swinging
Almost got a hit but it was a foul tip
caught for strike three
I contested a checked swing
They said I went around
I was drilled in the chest
ruled a glance off the bat
I squared to bunt but stepped on the plate
Took ball four with one foot out of the box
Still my anger could be abated
if those umps and I weren’t related
So without ever getting on
I was thrown out at home
January27, 2013 (I was 68)
By now I have seen many
that wore their honors out
runners whom renown outran
They newspaper the past
of many an older man
When I first read of Houseman’s dead
I inscribed my volume in dedication
to the demise of that year’s youth
nodding my head to A.E.’s truth
After fifty years it seems not smart to slip away
much smarter not to play
Athletic scandal is a national pastime
Better it is to own the Grecian urn
depicting the laurels Ernie Davis earned
December 16, 1975 (I was 30)
A Throw
Perceiving the impending fall,
the equestrian rises out of the saddle
clearing the mount, and extends
body lines along the lines of force.
Upon impact, the faller
absorbs the energy
rolling a line as long as possible
converting vertical motion to horizontal.
Whereupon assessing bodily damage
and usually finding none permanent,
the pedestrian retrieves his mount
and ignores tomorrow’s papers.
from this week in October, 2006 (I was 61)
Can you get up? How many fingers?
You got your bell rung. Can you stay in?
It’s true. It happens. I saw stars.
Not stars exactly, sparklers.
Shit ya I can stay in
What the hell kinda langwidge is zat?
Cool dark night of my senior year
Took it on the chin, mighta been kicked
Part of the game, happen zall a time
Back in the huddle call signals for the play
really nice night someone carries the ball
Threw a block in there like I was suppose ta
Kept on goin’ and things took me with ‘em
Sometimes seems it was most real
Combined waking with reality of dreams
August 15, 1994 (I was 49)
Such intensity of competition found in petty amusements,
international humiliation and murder in World Cup Soccer.
Some actually dream about Dream Teams. The homeless do not
care if the city loses its franchise. The stadium could
become their city. Ball players strike and no one laughs.
Team owners need special rules to prevent themselves
from paying high salaries and special dispensations
to declare their game a National Treasure to protect profits.
Boys stay boys until they are cut from a team.
Some never make it. Prosecutors agree great running backs
cannot be truly criminal in our truly criminal sense.
I say stab any tennis player in the back
and break the knees of any skater who dares to play
before a paying audience. Then arrest the audience for solicitation