Tagged: Baseball Poetry

My Next Life

This is an extrapolation of a comment I made to a White Sox fan who wrote something nice to me after they won it all. With Spring Training almost upon us, I thought about it again today.

My Next Life

If I must reincarnate–
and often I think,
if given a choice,
I’d pass it up–
I would like my next life
to be a life in baseball,
from T-ball in youth
to team ownership in age.
But not on this earth! Rather,

on a planet where
they have baseball,
but not steroids
or nuclear bombs.

On a planet where
players make good livings
because all there
make good livings,
and nobody thinks that
thowing a ball 90 miles per hour,
or hitting one thrown that fast,
rates more pay in one year
than most make in one life.

On a planet where
the people–men, women, and
whatever other genders they might have,
enjoy watching pros and playing themselves;
doing what they enjoy,
valuing what others
would not pay to watch.

On a planet where
there are many places to play;
where baseball diamonds,
football grids, soccer fields,
bicycle paths and other such places
as folks on other planets might invent,
are as important to city life
as office towers and apartments.

On a planet where
baseball does not belong
to one gender, one race, or one country,
unless that planet has
only one gender, one race, or one country.

On a planet where
no one says "dumb jock;"
Athletes have a body wisdom
those who lead the life of the mind
do not know.

On a planet where
the catchers’s gear
is never called "tools of ignorance;"
no position
requires more intelligence.

On a planet where
I could be an outfielder, with
speed and daring like Eric Byrnes,
an arm like Vlad Guerrero’s,
or a shortstop, sure from youth,
of what he wanted, where,
like Derek Jeter.

On a planet where
I could be
a great clutch bat,
like David Ortiz.
(Rising to the moment, in any field,
is life’s greatest achievement).

On a planet where
through it all, win and lose,
I’d be called a great teammate,
a fan favorite;
calling it quits in my own time,
on my own terms,
to be a coach, and later manager,
respected for my teaching skills.

And later still,
a shrewd but fair GM I’d be,
and lastly,
an owner whose team
was a proud part
of the life of a city,

on a planet where
they have baseball,
but not steroids
or nuclear bombs.

Kéllia Ramares
Oakland, CA

Down the Left Field Line

It’s Friday and I was trying to do some catch up housework. The 3-in-5 rule came into effect several days ago. Trip over 3 things in 5 minutes and it’s time to clean up. I’m not going to get much done, however. I found a poem I had started a few weeks ago. I finished it and then tried to post it here. Then for some reason, habit, or just tiredness, I hit the back button on the browser and everything was erased. So now I have to adjust all the HTML again, because the system assumes paragraphs instead of line breaks. That’s a bad assumption for poetry. It’s stuff like this that at least partially explains why my place is dusty, the chairs are piled high with papers (news and other kinds), and the sink is usually full of dishes. To me,"tidying up home" makes me think of an umpire brushing off the plate.

If any of you don’t like Eric Byrnes, now is the time to leave. In fact, if you don’t like Eric Byrnes, you’ve wandered into the wrong blog.

Down the Left Field Line

In Oakland,
down the left field line,
we wait to welcome Byrnesie back,
down the left field line,
while he limbers up in right.

Each toss is longer,
’til in center field,
his teammate gets
what in a game
might be a long throw home.

In Oakland,
down the left field line,
we wait to welcome Byrnesie back.
He plays left field,
and fielding grounders pre-game
is his work. We know
he’ll come our way.

And, finally,
he joins us, jogging
near the left field line.
We wave and cheer,
and Eric Byrnes waves back,
a slight smile on his face.

He knows a change in "uni"
doesn’t change the hearts
of those who know
that Northern California is his home.

Home team
has two meanings.

In Oakland,
down the left field line
we watch our Byrnesie,
who’s come back
in unfamiliar garb to practice
taking grounders in left field.

He throws the balls
from left to second base,
as in a game
he’d throw a runner out.

He stops to rest.
We wave and cheer,
and Eric Byrnes waves back,
a slight smile on his face.

He knows a change in "uni"
doesn’t change the hearts
of those who know
that Northern California is his home.

Home team
has two meanings.

Kéllia Ramares
Oakland, CA

Radio Internet Story Exchange

Home

Home
(For Eric Byrnes — Baltimore Orioles No. 15)

Home is where
being you
fits the game plan.

Home is where
they teach
what you have to learn,
and learn
what you have to teach.

Home is where
the team
and the individual
coexist, building stats and stories
for each other.

Home is where
they celebrate your streaks,
commiserate your slumps,
and love you just the same
both ways.

Home is where
you are welcomed
at the end of adventure,
from where
you are wished good luck
when you set out again.

Sometimes
home is not where
you always were,
or where
you hoped you’d always be.

Byrnesie says:
"First key to success:
Access to the stadium."

Kellia’s Corollary —
Second key to success:
Access to the lineup.

Third key to success:
Knowing where home is.

Success: getting there.

Kellia Ramares
Oakland, CA
Radio Internet Story Exchange

 

Young Girls With Gloves

August 17, 2005, McAfee Coliseum,
(Or so they are calling it this year)
Oakland, CA

Young Girls with Gloves

Young boys with gloves
can chase a dream
young girls with gloves cannot.

Yet girls have gloves and dreams
and dads who
teach them to play catch.

Two young girls with gloves
play catch,
with dad coaching
as we wait
for gates to open.

I watch them,
remembering my dad
coaching Little League
long before girls could play.
But one day, at practice,
he let me help him cover second base
while boys
learned to hit long
before colleges
gave girls
scholarships for softball.

Two young girls with gloves
play catch,
waiting for gates to open.

I watch them,
and hope today’s adults
do not destroy the dream
before young girls with gloves
perfect their pitches,
their catches,
and their college applications.

Kéllia Ramares
Oakland, CA
Radio Internet Story Exchange