Hitting the Curve - May 30 2026

 

Hitting the Curve

May 30 2026

The smell of red meat

sizzling on the grill,

and the yeasty pong

of over-priced beer

spilled from flimsy cups.

 

The sound

of the gravel-voiced announcer

reverberates over the wall,

a cheerleading booster

who knows the hometown

of every fresh-faced player,

and enthusiastically shills 

for the small business owners

who sponsor the team

  — local luminaries

who stand beaming proudly

when they hear their company name.

The crack of the bat

carries through the air,

the sharp clean sound

of hardwood

on tightly wound leather.

How satisfying

after all the fouls and whiffs

and unbearable tension

 —  the finality

of a ball squarely hit.

Followed by the cheers of the crowd,

rising in a chorus

that swells to envelope me

in its raw collective power.

I can’t help but think of the throngs

jumping to their feet

at triumphal rallies,

a charismatic leader

feeding them the red meat

they love to hear.

All joining as one

in the thrill of belonging.

But this is a ballgame, not politics.

I am walking by the stadium

unaware there is a game,

and the brief moment

strikes me as iconic

 — minor league baseball

on a perfect summer day.

I love the game 

and am tempted to watch

but haven’t time to stop.

College players

and bush league hopefuls

who have crossed the northern border

to a place they never heard of.

Do they think it’s exotic here?

A great adventure 

in the far north?

An experience to weave stories from

when they return home?

They say travel is enlarging.

But these kids just want to play ball

drink beer

meet girls.

They are mercenaries, like the rest of us,

living their best lives

in the bloom of a youth

they imagine will be endless.

I envy them;

that one’s life purpose

could be hitting the curve

from a side-arming leftie.

And the fans, as well,

committing themselves

at least for one afternoon

to this singular thing

 — at the ballpark

on lush green grass

under clear blue sky,

grilling meat and drinking beer

and cheering for the home team

as if it really mattered.

I think there’s a certain yearning to this poem: an observer, who would rather be taking part.

And a celebration of being immersed in the moment: when the here and the now are all that matters.

And, of course, there’s no avoiding my abiding cynicism:  the oblique reference to Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will, her notorious and rather chilling film of the Nazi rallies; the ungenerous (and I’m sure unfair!) depiction of these earnest young college players as shallow. Even the team sponsors get a little sideways sneer from me — entirely undeserved, I’m sure: the picture I paint of small businessmen beaming proudly as they leverage their association with the team to pose as big-shots. 

But mostly, I’m just trying to capture and reproduce that sensory experience: a descriptive poem that doesn’t presume to have anything important to say!