CrackerJack and Hot Dog - Feb 22 2024

 

CrackerJack and Hot Dog

Feb 22 2024

The boys of summer.

Something I long for

in a dreary winter

of long nights

soiled snow

and cold dull days,

when the thin white light

seems to flatten the world.

Of course, they're actually grown men,

and the season begins

in the cool damp of spring.

But still, the diamond

is a lushly verdant green,

jewel-like

under the high-powered lights

of a grapefruit league stadium.

The crack of the bat

is just as firm and final,

the thwap

of leather on leather

has the same solid satisfaction.

And the home run trot

nodding to the crowd

is just as triumphant,

despite the aw-shucks modesty

of a grown man

playing a boy's game

for millions of dollars a year.

For many,

baseball may be too slow

old-fashioned

uncool.

But for traditionalists

who can live without the glitz and glamour,

prefer the measured pace

and acrobatics,

enjoy the cat and mouse

of pitcher and batter

nothing satisfies more.

The slow building of tension,

the sudden ecstatic release.

The perfect dimension

of 60 feet 6 inches

and home to first.

The perfectly timed turn

of the pick-off at second base

and slick double play.

And there's so much nuance

l'm always learning

and seeing something new.

Not to mention

the treasured history,

the hijinks in the dug-out,

the colour man's southern drawl.

How oddly comforting

to hear the same old clichés,

the stories

you've heard before

but even more embellished,

and his signature home run call

as the ball sails over the fence

and becomes a souvenir.

It can even be Shakespearean.

The performance art

of the slugger's steely gaze.

The tossed  bat as mic-drop,

because actions speak louder than words

and there's nothing more to say.

And the manager's red-faced glare,

chewing out the ump

and grinding his hat underfoot.

CrackerJack and hot dog

it's finally time,

there's a ballgame to watch!

With the first preseason game just a couple of days away, I couldn’t resist. But then, if I didn’t watch myself, every poem would either be dogs or baseball!

I let myself totally indulge: the hell with distillation, compression, brevity; ambiguity and allusion. Which is fine. A poem that says what it says and unfolds in the fullness of time perfectly suits baseball: no clock; taking as long as it takes.