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And offer you the freedom of the town—. The tumult and the shouting from the throats.
Kamikaze Images - Letters, Poems, Diaries, and Other Writings
Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats. Or, as H. O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,. That next October it shall flutter here:. Be that to which most fondly we aspire! For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race—. Baseball Poems.
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Poems to celebrate the national pastime. Read More. More Poems by Franklin Pierce Adams. A Psalm of Freudian Life. Bricks and Straw. Lines from a Plutocratic Poetaster to a Ditch-digger. See All Poems by this Author. See a problem on this page? More About This Poem. After Zito pitched seven and two-thirds innings.
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In Bull Durham Susan Sarandon fucks pitchers into pros. I turn off the game to put the baby to bed, then to kiss Eliot as we learn later Romo was getting the save and Tim Hudson in his first game in the family held the Diamondbacks scoreless for seven and two-thirds innings. And that summer, my mother and I drove by softball fields in Nebraska which were full of spectators, lit by enormous lights, full of the love for the game. I loved the Giants most when they won the pennant in and then the World Series, when we stood on the corners of streets in the Mission enamored of strangers who offered us fist bumps, hugs, who yelled in our faces, and drove down Mission Street slowly in their low riders in an impromptu parade like the dance party one street over.
The last time I was riding the train from San Francisco to Oakland, a month ago, I watched a group of young men younger than us , in Giants hats, persistently calling various authorities to find out if their friend,. Several people seemed visibly moved by this public and probably pointless display of friendship,. I thought about the poems we had been writing. I still care for the Giants but I could love other teams, or even other sports, I think. When Brian narrates the lives of players, or when he tears up because of some improbable win or loss, some rule-bound, yet unpredictable, feat of heroism or physical grandeur,.
The softball fields of Santa Barbara are parched. The town is painfully polished.
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Biking home tipsy under stars from the Creekside Tavern in Goleta, jasmine and vine roses, the empty horse-shoe lots and the tennis courts and the parks full of people Sunday afternoons. What you wrote about the Rays only sounded adulterous: because loyalty, because hyperbolic fandom, because turning business into love and teams into family, when in fact players have real families and so do we. Theo will think it normal to hike in rain pants. Hunter Pence had only been a Giant for a few weeks when he started dropping poetry about it, but if baseball teams are ships of Theseus the club endures as will perhaps my love for it.
Designed to break your heart. Image at top by Nate Bolt, via Flickr. Boom California on September 3, Bottom of the Seventh At the start of the season with a new haircut and dark glasses Tim Lincecum said he felt he could write a pretty good poem or two. Then the slump, the clubhouse silent after each loss. Was it simpler then? I want to lick my fingers like Sergio Romo to execute each task with the right amount of moisture.
Watching Baseball, Writing Poetry
Timmy puts his fist to his mouth, puffs up his cheeks, slackens into a corkscrew off the mound, and on July 13, pitched his first no-hitter. The streets were empty and filled with fog. I lay awake thinking about the loneliness of private lives. Language that is alive… is clipped from argument, the students wrote, is care- ful full of care, not cautious , the opposite of flat.
I walked off into the field, expecting wildflowers brought by a Mayflower to populate New Fields. The only wild pent up in greeny compressions that signaled a frog, or a bear surveying the edge of a highway somewhere that might be summer here. What if your family were a state, I asked?
They turned their thoughts to paper.