Tag: Baseball

Milestones

Hit. Single. Squibber. Blooper. Line drive. Bouncer. Whatever you call it, Detroit Tigers’ designated hitter Miguel Cabrera has 3,002 of them (at time of writing). Some of them were home runs, doubles, and I’m sure a few were even triples. In fact, Cabrera’s first hit was actually a home run, as were his 1,000th and 2,000th hits. Three thousand was a slap shot through the infield into right field. Not even Cabrera can hit it out of the park every time.

I’ve been watching Miguel Cabrera play baseball since 2003. It’s surreal that I saw his journey begin 19 years ago, and while not over now, 2022 is certainly the twilight of his career. Cabrera started with the then Florida Marlins, and I was living in Orlando at the time. I watched the Marlins advance to the World Series that year, and saw Cabrera and his teammates defeat the New York Yankees to win it all. (A lifelong Cleveland baseball fan, I will nonetheless cheer for any team playing against the Yankees.)

I almost saw Miguel Cabrera hit his 500th home run. Ever since I was young, I’ve wanted to visit all 30 Major League Baseball stadiums, and number 10 on my list was Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers. Last year Cabrera was chasing another milestone: 500 home runs. Alas, he didn’t hit one while I was there, needing a few more games to get to the momentous number, though like his 3,000th hit, I saw the game on TV.

Ever since this afternoon’s famous hit, I’ve been thinking about other milestones I’ve witnessed in baseball. First to come to mind is Cal Ripken Jr’s breaking of Lou Gerig’s consecutive game streak in 1995. Gerig played for 2,130 straight games. Ripken would play for another 502 games to set the record at 2,632, finally ending the streak in 1998. I was eight years old when I watched Ripken on that first historic night.

Roger Maris, back in 1961, set the home run record for most home runs in a single season at 61. That record would stand until 1998, truly an historic year in baseball, when Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire would simultaneously chase Maris’ record. I remember watching highlight after highlight of home run after home run as those two power hitters traded the most home runs that year. McGwire would come out on top with 70, a record that would stand until Barry Bonds hit 73 three years later in 2001. Sosa, McGwire, and Bonds have all been plagued by allegations of steroid or other PED use that sullies their achievements, but as a kid in the 90’s nothing was more exciting than watching all those home runs fly out of the ball park.

Mariano Rivera is one of the greatest closing pitchers of all time, and currently holds the record for saves at 652, set in 2013. I remember Rivera not just saving baseball games, but completely shutting them down. Whenever he came out of the bullpen, to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”, you just knew the game was over for the opposing team, and it very often was.

As I’ve grown up watching baseball, and continued to watch it every year, I’ve seen many amazing plays, records, and incredible feats on the diamond. Along the way, I’ve grown up and have been making a life for myself. It was always my dream to play professional baseball, and while that dream never materialized, I remain a lifelong lover of the game. It’s surreal to me that I’ve seen so many great, now Hall of Fame, players, and Miguel Cabrera is one who I’ve been privileged to see for his entire career so far. There have been others, of course, having watched baseball for close to 35 years, but Cabrera stands out among them. Congratulations to him on 3,002 hits and as many more as he can collect before he retires to well deserved accolades and eventually the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame.

Play Ball!

It’s been a while, everyone. I’m struggling to stay positive and forward thinking. Objectively, I am doing alright, but psychologically, it doesn’t feel that way. That’s depression, I guess.

When last I wrote, my job had been halved, and it still is. Since then I’ve been on a job interview, and am doing the maddening waiting game to hear if I have new employment. A painting was in progress, and I finished it, though I am disappointed with the end result (it was a paint by number kit, which I hadn’t attempted since my childhood). I haven’t worked out this week aside from doing yard work on Monday, which hit my fitness goals while not feeling like working out, a net positive I guess. Overall, I feel defeated.

I have created some more pieces for my photography diorama which I am extremely happy with, and I am still working on my 52 Week Photography Challenge, though I missed a photo (which I plan to make up this week). You can see both the diorama bits and my latest challenge pic on my Instagram. I have purchased a few new books that I am excited to try to read. I have projects to work on, and things to do around the house. I don’t lack for directions to go.

Yet I don’t know what is going on. Perhaps I need to adjust medication, or maybe I need to just endure some doldrums. Maybe a new job would provide the pick-me-up that I need. I just don’t know. I am taking at least one, sometimes two, short naps a day, even on days when I work out or am more active. Lately, when I do have a more active or productive day, it feels like I pay for it for the next few days. By that I mean I spend the following days unable to do much other than sit around. I try to give myself grace, and let be what will be, but it’s hard to not feel like I “should” be doing this or that. The sin of productivity follows me all the days of my life, it seems.

Last time I wrote that I don’t want to complain, and while I am trying hard not to do that, it really is difficult. I admit my frustration; clearly I want things that I cannot access right now. If you follow my blog regularly it probably feels a bit down in the mouth recently. If nothing else, I strive for honesty here. You won’t find much sugarcoating, so take this for what it is: a real look at my life. This blog is called A Simple Man, and that is all I am: a simple man, trying to make my way in the universe.

I spent part of yesterday, or the day before, just sitting outside with my pups. It was warm in the sunshine, with a nice breeze. The dogs were soaking up both, and I tried to stay in the moment, practicing mindfulness and being present where I was, not letting my mind wander or my thoughts intrude in the peacefulness. Mostly I was successful. I got some vitamin D, and a small respite from all this negativity that I’ve been experiencing lately. It was great. Then I had to come inside and back to all the grey. Still, I am thankful for what I have right now. It could be, and has been, much worse at times in my life. I’ll take all the forward progress I’ve made.

As always, I march ever onward. I really want to bring a positive blog post soon, and hope I can. For now, it is what it is. I was just watching a baseball game, and the Guardians won a double-header. But I am reminded that baseball is 162 games in a season, and is perhaps the hardest grind there is among the top sports. You don’t win baseball in an at bat, an inning pitched, or even in a game, but over the long haul. If you are not prepared to hurt, to be down and out, and to completely strike out, baseball is not for you. Champions are made from those who show up to the ballpark day after day and tie on their cleats, button up their jersey, and straighten their hat and go back out there to compete again. I’ll take a lesson from my favorite sport, and remember that it isn’t today that determines whether I am on top or not, but rather it’s the many days of being in the sun that proves I am where I want to be.

An Ode to Odes

It was cold and rainy as I made my weekly trek to Barnes and Noble, a perfect fall day. On the trees the leaves were changing and in the air there was a crispness. I felt juvenated and alive. I sat down at a large table in the back of B&N and took out my copy of the Ode Less Traveled and began to read and write.

Today’s forms included the many types of odes. These days an ode can refer to any kind of poetry, but there are specific forms that are “proper” odes. Among those I attempted the sapphic ode, the pindaric ode, and the horation ode. A sapphic ode is usually written with three stanzas, and each stanza is composed of four lines, three of iambic tetrameter and one of iambic dimeter. I say usually because there are many variations possible within the form, but as described is the classic form.

An Ode to Stormtrooper Armor

All gleaming white, the armor stands,
the black insidious eyes do stare.
It clothes the Empire’s ruthless bands;
should just be bare.

It takes a hit, a hole appears;
the soldier dies, a flash of light
upon the chest: what poor career
the choice, a blight.

Why wear the armor bright? It yields
no benefit. The man beneath
just groans and dies. Bury him in fields
of green, the heath.

A pindaric ode is written in three stanzas. Each has a function, and while overall the meter is variable, each stanza must be composed identically in form. I chose to write each stanza with four lines of iambic dimiter, trimeter, tetrameter, and pentameter in ascending order. This ode need not rhyme. Actually, no odes need to rhyme as odes are originally a Roman thing, and there isn’t much rhyme outside of English.

An Ode to Stormtroopers

Strophe (Turn)

All hail!
the brave, the few, the true,
an Empire’s legion: stormtroopers.
They fight and die to win the Empire’s day.

Antistrophe (Counter Turn)

But they
cannot take aim or shoot
a straight and forward beam of light
at their targets, through “crack” and “best” they be.

Epode (the Stand)

Perhaps:
secret rebel dreams hold
behind their masks of white and black
to let the heroes live to fight back.

Then there is the Horation ode, which is much like the pindaric ode where the prevailing method of the form is that it remain consistent to each stanza. I chose three lines of iambic trimeter and one line of iambic pentameter. Just because.

An Ode to Barnes & Noble

I love thy smell of books
and coffee commingled in’th’ air
I love thy stacks and rows
of history, humor

of toys and games and Nook
the digital book for all
and desks at which to sit
to read and write a poem

There are a few other odes, some proper, some not, but due to the variability and required subject matter, I skipped them.

Lastly I moved to other forms and attempted a villanelle, which is a fun, favorite form that I love to try. A villanelle has no set meter, but does have a set rhyme scheme in which certain lines repeat. Usually it is A1BA2, ABA1, ABA2, ABA1, ABA2, ABA1A2.

An Villanelle Ode to Baseball

Baseball is a many pleasured thing:
the ball that buzzes, the bat that cracks;
it starts after the anthem rings.

Pitcher fires the ball, batter takes a swing,
he hits a double with a mighty thwack!
Baseball is a many pleasured thing.

The runner’s picked off, a sneaky sting.
He jogs to the dugout, bent back.
It starts after the anthem rings.

The submariner a curveball slings,
the batter whiffs, the ball glove smacks.
Baseball is a many pleasured thing.

The centre fielder to the wall springs,
he leaps and makes the catch at the track:
it starts after the anthem rings.

It all can change with just a swing,
a swift strike or a homer bat crack,
baseball is a many pleasured thing:
it starts after the anthem rings.

As usual, I claim no greatness or mastery, unless it be of fun and adherence to form. I do my best to enjoy the process of writing and sharing poetry, and leave greatness to the eventual tinkering and adjusting that is editing and the time that is the measure of all things. I only hope you enjoy reading my poems as much as I enjoy sharing them.

 

Enter Sandman

The ear crunching chords of heavy metal music shattered the quiet, Kansas evening. The music crackled a bit, coming as it did from old, creaky speakers. When these speakers were designed, heavy metal hadn’t yet been invented. It was no wonder the rhythmic bass and electric guitars strained their mechanical limits.

Karin jerked awake and sat up straight in bed. From her bedroom on the second floor of the farm house, the music roared into the dark corners and echoed off the walls.

Say your prayers little one,

Don’t forget my son
To include everyone

Karin threw back her covers. A faint light was filtering in through her bedroom windows. The ballpark! Karin grabbed her bathrobe from the chair by her bed and shrugged it over her shoulders as she ran down the stairs.

I tuck you in
Warm within

Keep you free from sin

‘Til the sandman he comes

When she was a little girl, Karin’s father Ray plowed a corner of his cornfield and built a ballpark. At first it was a left field only, finely manicured Bermuda grass and a rickety old section of grandstand. Over the summer he labored and tilled and planted and painstakingly built a baseball diamond. Just across sagging chain link fences and creaking bleachers, tall ears of Iowa corn reached to the starry skies.

Sleep with one eye open

Gripping your pillow tight

The screen door banged against the door frame as Karin breezed out of the house. Her bare feet slapped against the brown dirt path that led from the front door to the left field seats. Though her father had long ago completed other sections of the grandstands for spectators, she always sat in left field. It was where the magic had first manifested, and though it had spread, it still always seemed strongest there.

Exit light

Enter night
Take my hand
We’re off to never never-land

Karen stomped up the bleacher stairs and sat down, out of breath and staring into the night. Her breasts were heaving as she gulped air. Her flaming red hair was unkept and tangled from sleep and the midnight wind. There, in the centre field wall where on enchanted nights the ghost men walked in to play baseball and out to rest until the next mystical “Play ball!”, a new shimmering baseball player was entering. His cleats shifted from translucent and grey to solid and black as they crunched the dirt of the warning track. Head down, he tucked his glove under his arm, and began to jog from centre field towards the pitcher’s mound.

At first, Karin didn’t know who he was. His pinstripe uniform wasn’t immediately distinct, but then she saw the bold big numbers on his back. 42. Karin gasped. Could it be?

Her gaze remained locked on the new pitcher emerging from the cornfield, but she acknowledged the arrival of her parents with a distracted wave of her hand. Annie, her mother, was an aged, mirror image of her daughter, though her red hair had faded and was streaked with the silver of age. Her father moved with the slow, creaking joints of a lifelong farmer. Though his face was deeply grooved from long days under the summer sun, his smile was still bright.

“Did I hear ‘Enter Sandman’?” he asked, a slight rasp in his voice.
“Yep. I wonder what Joe thinks of ‘modern music’?” Karin replied.
“Is it…?” Ray let the question tail off into a whisper.

Karin just pointed to the pitcher warming up on the mound. He was focused, quick, deliberate in his delivery to the catcher. His number was clearly visible, and though there was no name on the jersey, Ray immediately knew who was making warm-up tosses on his cornfield ballpark mound.

“Mariano Rivera.”

He didn’t so much say the name as breathe it with a holy reverence. From left field, Shoeless Joe lobbed a toss to the centre fielder, and turned to throw the Kinsella family a wink. He had heard Ray’s whisper. Joe enjoyed introducing new players to his magical baseball fans.

Rivera, the greatest closer to ever pitch in organized baseball, was warming up for the 1918 Chicago White Sox in a cornfield in Iowa.

“Watch this, Karin,” Ray said, leaning down from his seat to whisper in his daughter’s ear. “Mariano Rivera is the greatest pitcher to ever close a game. He throws a cutter, primarily. It comes in hard and straight like a fastball and at the last moment cuts hard. He discovered it by accident, they say. Chipper Jones, he played third base for the Atlanta Braves in Mariano’s time, called the pitch a buzz saw. They said Rivera broke more bats in a single season than any pitcher before him.”

Karin listened and watched with rapt attention as Mariano Rivera stood tall on the mound. He stared into the catcher for a brief moment before turning, and hurling a pitch towards home plate. Even from left field, above the crickets and the leathery flapping of corn husks, Karin heard the zip of a baseball, and the loud *snap* of the baseball smacking into the catcher’s mitt.

“Striiiiike one!” the umpire yelled. Mariano simply caught the ball from his catcher, kicked the dirt on the mound, and stood, foot pressed against the rubber, ready to go again.

“If you build it, he will come,” a ghostly announcer once said. Then “he” was Shoeless Joe Jackson. Tonight it was Mariano Rivera, the last ball player to ever wear number forty-two, and the greatest to ever pitch the ninth inning.

Karin smiled. The magic was still alive in the Iowa cornfield.