The adult volunteers worked long nights after work, whipping fields into shape so their sons could experience the combat of hardball without the pleasures of cow pies and random rocks placed Murphy like, in just the right karmic position.
Little did we know, we were to be a small part of a larger saga. A story that continues today on the same, vastly improved ball fields. But in 1958, the men ran out of money and in Hovey Square Park, local ground rules had to be established. There was no fence in left field.
Local Variations
Louisville Slugger War Club
held
Ground Rule Birch Tree
double-
no fence-
all you can get
to the left
-in the puddles
tadpoles relentless.
Beaver brook
falls dam
tops worn Kids Ked
smooth-
How many horn-pout
pulled-
breathless.
Soft sighing of
the wind blow
south from the mountains
flow over
pushing
to
the Merrimack River
towns built
on sites
indian war whoops
chasing Mohawk away
behind Bob Garipy’s
Auto Parts Store
4 comments:
Found you over at Hughes' blog, had to check out your work.
I love your rhythm--the cadence in this poem. There is something of the blues in it, I think--and it sounds authentic.
Besides--it takes me back to playing little league growing up in a little redneck town out in the middle of blessed nowhere. Some of the best days of my life thus far, now nearly 20 years gone.
I'll try to drop back by when I have a little more time to read.
Thanks - Yep I was hoping to stir up memories with this. I think of American boys, out there on the fields, coast to coast, learning how to grow up. And it's all the same rules! My team could've played yours; no problem. Oh, except for left field - we got no fence!
I was worried your "secret blog" might really be secret. Glad I can read too. Thank you! Great Poem.
You are welcome. At my age, I have no secrets!
You may enjoy "All the Bright Mornings", although it is done using Projective Verse, and sits on the page differently.
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