Again Upon the Boards

The Retreat From Moscow, by William Nicholson.

Dayton Playhouse, Wegerzyn MetroPark. April 12, 13, 14 and April 19, 20, 21.

A Penny for the Old Guy

Polo Grounds

 

Time is of the essence.  This is a highly skilled

And beautiful mystery.  Three or four seconds only

From the time that Riggs connects till he reaches first, 

And in those seconds Jurges goes to his right, 

Comes up with the ball, tosses to Witek at second, 

For the force on Reese, Witek to Mize at first, 

In time for the out—a double play.

 

 (Red Barber crescendo.  Crowd noises, obbligatio; 

Scattered staccatos from the peanut boys, 

Loud in the lull, as the teams are changing sides) . . .

Hubbell takes the sign, nods, pumps, delivers— 

A foul into the stands.  Dunn takes a new ball out, 

Hands it to Danning, who throws it down to Werber; 

Werber takes off his glove, rubs the ball briefly, 

Tosses it over to Hub, who goes to the rosin bag, 

Takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers— 

Low, outside, ball three.  Danning goes to the mound, 

Says something to Hub, Dunn brushes off the plate, 

Adams starts throwing in the Giant bullpen, 

Hub takes the sign from Danning, pumps, delivers, 

Camilli gets hold of it, a long fly to the outfield, 

Ott goes back, back, back, against the wall, gets under it, 

Pounds his glove, and takes it for the out.

That's all for the Dodgers. . . .

 

Time is of the essence. The rhythms break,

More varied and subtle than any kind of dance;

Movement speeds up or lags.  The ball goes out

In sharp and angular drives, or long slow arcs,

Comes in again controlled and under aim;

The players wheel or spurt, race, stoop, slide, halt,

Shift imperceptibly to new positions,

Watching the signs according to the batter,

The score, the inning. Time is of the essence. 

 

Time is of the essence.  Remember Terry? 

Remember Stonewall Jackson, Lindstrom, Frisch, 

When they were good?  Remember Long George Kelly? 

Remember John McGraw and Benny Kauff? 

Remember Bridwell, Tenney, Merkle, Youngs,

Chief Meyers, Big Jeff Tesreau, Shufflin' Phil?

Remember Mathewson, Ames, and Donlin,

Buck Ewing, Rusie, Smiling Mickey Welch?

Remember a left-handed catcher named Jack Humphries,

Who sometimes played the outfield, in '83?

 

Time is of the essence. The shadow moves

From the plate to the box, from the box to second base,

From second to the outfield, to the bleachers. 

 

Time is of the essence. The crowd and players

Are the same age always, but the man in the crowd

Is older every season.  Come on, play ball!


Rolph Humphries

another poem for the wifflers

Cobb Would Have Caught It

Robert Fitzgerald

In sunburnt parks where Sundays lie,
Or the wide wastes beyond the cities,
Teams in grey deploy through sunlight.

Talk it up, boys, a little practice.

Coming in stubby and fast, the baseman
Gathers a grounder in fat green grass,
Picks it stinging and clipped as wit
Into the leather: a swinging step
Wings it deadeye down to first.
Smack. Oh, attaboy, attyoldboy.

Catcher reverses his cap, pulls down
Sweaty casque, and squats in the dust:
Pitcher rubs new ball on his pants,
Chewing, puts a jet behind him;
Nods past batter, taking his time.
Batter settles, tugs at his cap:
A spinning ball: step and swing to it,
Caught like a cheek before it ducks
By shivery hickory: socko, baby:
Cleats dig into dust. Outfielder,
On his way, looking over shoulder,
Makes it a triple. A long peg home.

Innings and afternoons. Fly lost in sunset.
Throwing arm gone bad. There's your old ball game.
Cool reek of the field. Reek of companions.