empire - i4

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THE EMPIRE BUILDER

Issue 4 // Baseball is Baseball

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the empire builds. bleachers packed, standing room only at the

right eld fence. the spirit swells in grandstands of america. i4

gathers momentum, shakes third from its heels and blows a loco-

motive steam of dreams on its way home. dust tornadoes plume in

the wake of cleats and tattered knees. i4 is here blasting through

catcher masks and chest pads. i4 feels connected to a bigger com-

munity. there is a roar of clanging bleachers in DC. howls at the

rst proseball in the Detroit box seats. they ponder true-self visions

working 2 - 3 counts in the Denver dug-outs. foggy San Francisco

weeps and bellows aer y balls and backwards Ks.

seasons cities ideas and love have rolled through us. we are rened

by memorized past lives paralleling current moments whirling,

blurring by in basepaths, hawking peanuts in the aisles, boogying

in between second and third. i4 on baseball: the sport of romance,

ideals, nostalgia, and bubble gum. baseball spans seasons and

poetic sentiment. our pens are as hot as cy youngs fastball. thank

you for reading. this issue is dedicated to the fans. the bleeding

heart poets. but particularly everyone else who watches the games

but has no idea who we are. signed ,

The Empire builds.

THE BUILDERS

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THE EMPIRE BUILDER

Infinite Summer // AWS

A Connoisseur of B aseball // SAW

Guest Contributor // GS

Manny the Scalper // AWS

sea.ttleorbaseb.all // CB

An Impossible Catch // JRF

The #3 Game I Ever Saw // AWS

The Kings Cards // AWS

The Game Was Lost, Illustration // PEM

Peer Pressure Patriotism // SAW

All Sorts of Things Could Happen // JRF

Fitness // JRF

Where Have All the Sports Poets Gone // CB

Chet Bartels & Free Hot Dogs // CB

ISSUE FOUR

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INFINITESUMMER

AWS

We lead o brewing beer. Racking beer precisely . Running the fermented beer from its

fermenting bucket, to another bucket, so the beer clears. e yeasty sediment is le

behind. In my old linoleum oor kitchen perpetually sullied by hardened dust of past

nights' dreams, in a hot-haze light, we call signals to each other. OK you sterilize the

bucket. Already done man. Nice one. en grab the hose. Got it. Is it sealed tight? Yeah.

Ok let 'er rip. Nice, it smells so great. Dude it's not sealed tight. Man yeah it is OH shit

what do I do what do I do? I got it. Nice save.

We rack. We drink beer. We jaw on the stoop. e sunowers grow high in the f ront yard.

e neighbors unhurried ly pass by. ey glance up from the sidewalk at two boys dressed

in annel short-visor ball caps, sipping beers, philosophizing on the designated hitter. All

the windows in the house are open. ere is the faro buzz of fans whirling upstairs on

high. e sidewalk is covered with chalk poetry and sketches. e summer blows over.

We mount bikes. In my pack the Cannon AE1, yellow-lined notepad, water and eyeglasse s,

a sharpened pencil. We ride for Coors Field up 25th-Washington-24th-Blake-one stop for

the peanut guy. Because baseball demands ritual. e old grizzly, white as the Rocky

Mountain peaks beard, gut like he eats the leovers daily, roasting 'em authentic and hot.

ey beat every store-bought bag from King Scoops. His little youngy daughter pulls out a

warm brown sack for us, an angel serving peanuts, and we are ready now, armed bypre-game ritual. We don't wait got the gates in our sights. We stick greedy claws in the

bag, forgetting shells on the sidewalk, littering like we're already in the aisle, our eyes on

the neon play-at-the plate. is is the rear gate to the park, the summertime sanctuary, the

only sports stands open for summer. Where brighthot high-desert days become the reason

we dig the twilight and warm embraces. e Sox and e Rocks alite here for interleague

play.

We sit in seats close to the eld watching the players play. We perch in the pavilion

mid-rst, the Purple Peaks down one early, from the third row close enough to see Gonzo

adjusting his crotch. Playing catch with Blackmon, the July call-up won't make it to

August. Close enough to comprehend the swagger. With our backs turned to the jumbo-

tron, no distracting short-attention-span-indulging mid-inning theatrics. Only catch hit

run slide. For complementary entertainment we exercise debates of passion and history.

Like for instance Helton's lost his heart, doesn't hustle down the line to the bag. v. Bull shit.

He's an athletic conservationist. He's playing sustainably out there conserving power for

the big time at-bats. v. Back to the bench with him already, the locker room mentor for the

youth. v. He was the only one in all of 'em hitting in May. e innings in-betwee ns.

In the Fourth, once the rhythm's established, the perfect game and no hitter grails lost for

another night, and the rst time my buddy asks but not before, it's time to make the trip to

the lines, the concessions looming over the grandstands. Because baseball tickets are

repaid only one way. Two polish, two heavy. Waiting in line is the hardest part, and it's

got to be this line too; the only unironic tap pouring Coors Banquet in Coors Field. But

desperately longing for a return to those seats. As in how I missed back-to-back bombs byGriey Jr. and A-Rod at SafeCo in '99. at day I rode the bus with turquoise seats from

the Tacoma Holiday Inn, my uncle and I standing for hot snacks, meanwhile one goes two

goes, we only watching on small monitors over the vendor's visor. Now with draughts and

dogs in my arms I'm on seat return, but rst take the sip from the top of both cups, the

waiter's sip, the sip that is lost otherwise in aisles and crowd collisions, take the sip for

walking room. And load those brats up with every color of high fructose corn syrup. Red

and yellow and green.

Over the Seventh the beer hums in our heads, the ballpark pints make their charm, rallied

those two quickies on the porch earlier when the night was still hot. We stretch, a choir

singing together. With arms draped over our shoulders we sway and sing and feel the

notwired deep July rhythm. Plugged into evening character-building, concentrating on

one solitary activity for nine innings. All six senses engage with the game. We ignore

when they tell us to MAKE SOME NOISE. Flip em o when they ash GET LOUD. Fee l

baseball signicance. Touch sacrice. Hear hard working bats cracking. Taste sweet

victory. e rst meeting of the Denver Society for the Preservation of Tangibility. Let thenight turn.

By the irteenth the fans wobble deadbeat, wait for the summer night hero. Most gone.

Grounders, dribblers, foul-pops caught by the catch behind home plate. Nothing doing

until they walk Tulowitzki. In steps the easy-out journeyman Ty Wiggington. e

hackneyed traveler blips a pitch into shallow center. Tulowitzki o. Dogout hauls around

third no look for the coach just digs up dust and slides for the cameras Safe. e Rocks

win. e Great Rocky Mountain Empire bows in the distance. e Cowtown takes game

one from the Mighty City of the Midwest, Lake Michigan's Guardian Ocer. We walk out

admiring our fellows who remained, some raw some wild some sleepy some child. We tip

our hats and unlock our bicycles. We pedal in packs-of-on e to our old homes of Denver,

Cowtown City in the High Plains, at the edge of the Empire. Where homebrew kegs

repose in basements and ardenthearted fans dream of September turnaround streaks. On

lonesome rides we reminisce on the pitches, the pageantry, the humor, the endurance. We

roll o into another Innite Summer night.

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just sitting and looking like a prettyhow do you do and a bleacher-seat benchand a smile and so prettyand i want-ed (and i hope shewanted) just to talkand watch everyone look at how prettyshe is and i thinking it would be o-k to sit next to herand her sayingso and for the rst time in my life act-ually doing it and stopping and in-troducing myself Hi (in brevity)(in bravery) and telling her what alovely little how do you do she makesand its impossible to conne suchjoy in one hundred and forty sylla-bles.

on taking 131-25-2 despite the fact the seat to which Iwas assigned was 131-29-6: a sonnet of one hundred

forty one

A Connoisseur of Baseball

Perhaps watching baseball is like yoga

it centers you, lets you escape

your thoughts to consider

something else. Else

that is repetitious, movement

aer movement the same everytime, yet not boring, a yoga master

can see the virtue of continuous

cycles of similar plays

that are always dierent. Today

the players and crowd are not

the same as the next day. Each

time it is a new practice.

When someone likes baseball

they have patience, they are idealistic,

value tradition or ceremony, can be

swept away in a moment and let

their mind wander. Admire

simple physical motion that they

have done themselves, yet appreciate

some do it much better. Are able

to sit alone in a room and read

a book or think, be by themselves,

they are loyal creatures

who can understand a need

of some for a routine.

I wish I owned a Googlemachine 1440iebluepixel megatooth etc.++

Instead, I put my phone through the washer anddryer, so the screen melted o and I dont know whatshappened to the Tigers since the Tampa Bay series. Itis, however, extremely clean.

SAW GS

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Manny e Scalper works the corner

18th and Larimer. Carves a trail

in concrete. Well souled,

Always needs tickets.

He hawked the bullseye seat for Bichettes blast

at y percent mark-up.

He had four le in his pocket

when Carroll won it in the 13th.

He gives 'em away aer the sixth

but Manny wont tell you that.

Whos got extras

I need tickets

Who's sellin'

Who's sellin'

Hey Amigo

Two just for you

Dont say no

Its Tulo and CarGo

Dont say no

Its the Rocky Mountain Power Show.

Q&A

Q:Is he friendly or shrewd?A: Shrewd.

Q: Does he play favorites?A: He favors old men. Feels sorry forem. Cant help it. But only for amoment. en hes tough as hell turnsanybody away with nothing -no price-because you take the deal whenMannys giving.

Q: Why does he scalp?A: He scalps be cause he is a distributor.A broker of baseball. He facilitates thecoming in, lls the stands, playsarbitrage on wins and losses, knowsthe lineup as well as Tracy.

Q:What are his dreams?A: He doesnt dream. He sleeps.

Manny The Scalper

AWS

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sea.ttleorbaseb.allbaseb.all is a past time,a tradition,it is on big screens,& n big ballparks.kids fawn aer

ball players.adults compile stats w/ pencils & red pens.my friend jonathan tells me stats

r important n baseb.all (he is an acionado).baseb.all has become an institution.it

provides strangers points of conversation on trains & buses.it allows bonds 2 b formed

across isles & bleacher seats.it is a part of the american culture & scene.there is beauty

there.there is beauty & energy @ the base.b.all diamond.

once i found a ball eld amongst the trees streets & parks n seattle.i rode n on a bike w/

a camera & lm n my bag.i heard voices & cracks, rattles & laughter.i had happened

upon a rag-tag game. some 10 odd kids were playing baseb.all n tight jeans,black &

acid washed,t-shirts & a couple jerseys hang on their shoulders.baseb.alls r littered

behind homeplate.there r only 2 outelders & no catcher.

slouched along the fence,hipsters waited.cigarettes rolled smoke f rom their lips.pbr &

the champagne of beers dripped from their tongues.talk along da bench & chatter in

tha eld. .y balls & hard grounders electried them.i sat & watched.it was

chilly.i snapped 3 pictures. behind home.plate,through the fence,& from le-eld.i

remembered my little league diamond.my backyard,thinning grass @ the pitchers place

& a dust bowl 2 the le of a beat up piece of black rubber,nubbed where da Tstand used

to jut skyward.

baseb.all,it seems the same as n my childhood.the same sounds & movements.yells &

rundowns.yet the hipsters have their own culture outside of baseb.all.n truth the

hipsters have always felt disparate from all other niches of american culture and

society.i guess i dont have 2 tell u.but on the eld swinging & throwing,it all seemed

ok.ok 4 me 2 B a part of their niche.ok 4 me 2 sit & watch,associating through

baseb.alls poetic medium,& smile,& feel a little bit closer than when they zip through

red-lites n seattle on xed gear bikes w/ high & tight bags instead of pitches.2day i

didnt hav-ta choose btwn base.ba.ll & C@tell.

it is baseb.all aer all.a tradition.an institution.a past time.like twain.ansel adams.andy

warhol.elvis.guthrie.abelincoln @

pioneers.visions.lovers.leavers.dreamers.builders.com. all quelled in2 1.impervious to swaggering trends and fads.it brings us together with something to talk

An IMPOSSIBLE CATCHe Polo Grounds in Harlem hosts a World Series game

Indians versus the Giants in the 8th inning frame

September 29th in 1954

Runners on 1st and 2nd 2-2 is the score

An impossible catch, an impossible catch

Willie Mays made an impossible catch

I will elucidate a CATCH that I never got to see

I study an account and it reveals itself to me

Liddles on the mound and Wertz is at the plate

Defenders in position, for Liddles next pitch they wait



Liddle makes his pitch, a disappearing streak of light

Wertz swings the bat, a blur too fast for sight

A re-like explosion, a violent sounding CRACK

Willie Mays is in center eld, in motion towards the track



e ball is like a comet, it is burning in the airSeems beyond the range of what Willie Mays can snare

Hes running at full speed, like a sprinter in a race

e ball keeps on carry ing but Mays is keeping pace



Legs and arms frenetic, he is completely turned around

Glove near his le shoulder, his back is to the mound

What happened next its hard to tell it all went by so fast

ankfully immortalized are moments from the past



CB JRF

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THE #3 GAME

I EVER SAW

AWS

is is the #3 best game I ever saw.

I wake early. Nine year old feet touch the red rag carpet. e Niagara Escarpment

runs from here to the Lutheran Church of Escarpment. Over on Upper Mountain

Road built last week with the hand of my father. It is light in the near-solstice June

16 morning. e window is cracked. e ceiling fan whirs. A breeze blows and

lis the curtains. I pull my glove from underneath the pillow. I pop hard few

cracks in the mitt. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. I wear the shirt not with the American

NY, but with the classy New York top hat hung to an angle of authority and

distinguish over the bat of Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio. Down the hall's a

waemaker ringing in the kitchen. Eggs and sausage links gurgle on the stove.

e cold turquoise tile oor. A deep morning voice behind a newspaper at the

kitchen table. Eat up boy therell be a drive today. Itll be long and pretty. Fill up.

In the eve of my 10th birthday, my parents and I made a trip to Cleveland. We

back out from the garage. Mom rides serene in the front seat. We drive down the

escarpment to the river, still ice cold blue, roiling to its plunge. e summer trees,

and the nimblewill on the banks green for just this moment. Now. We follow the

river back against its course through Lackawanna and Blasdell and Big Tree.

Towawanda, Kenmore, Sloan. en on Interstate 90 west, 180 miles alongside Lake

Erie, the old industrial grizzly of the Great Lakes. e windows open the whole

time, letting the morning in on the longest stretch of lined American concrete.

Dreaming of the boys who also made the drive, Roger and Mickey and Yogi and

Whitey. We stop not for gas or food or bathrooms. en Cuyahoga County, Dead

Mans Curve, downtown in the Forest City of Prosperity and Progress. Cleveland

Stadium. e Lakefront Stadium. e Big Ballpark. Where fans come in the

eighty thousands to watch a game of patience and calculus. e park of the AL

Central Cleveland Indians since 1932. ey broke ground in the middle of the

Great Depression, when people built things to beat their fears. When they took

action instead of standing still talking. A park where no ones hit one out in deep

center. Bill Veeck moves the fence in and out, depending on the day, the weather.

(ey tear it down in 93. ey forget then how to x things.)

Below is an account of the game.

In the late morning I see the midges and mayys swirling on the mound, grounds-

keepers bat them away, chalk dirt, geometrize the mound, rake sand. Mother leads

me for a hot dog, coke, bag of nuts. e ballgame entree for a nickel and three

pennies. e park half full, the empty church, hollow echoes of the sharp cracks of

the Indians taking batting practice. Rollie Sheldon and Jim Perry warming in the

bullpens. Perry breathes easy for Mickeys name does not grace the line-up on this

aernoon. Top of the rst Perry walks Maris but strikes out Blanchard where

Mickey shouldve stepped in to bring him in. e Cleveland Indians hit Rollie

hard. Double single single single. Four for four has Sheldon Stunned in the bottom

of the rst. ey add more in the second. We sit quietly in our pews. But then the

Yanks take back two in the fourt h. Pop looks over and says eres some runs for

you Stevie. And Blanchard bombs one to the fans in the h. So its 7-4 in the 7th.

With only nine outs le in the game, the Cleveland Indians call in reinforcement

arms, Bob Allen in for Perry. He wilts in the Yankees momentum, straightaway

doubled by Lopez, walks Tresh, brings up Roger Maris. Swing crack clap. e

Yankees are back. ree run distance for Roger Maris. en in the 8th with one

runner on, Mickey Mantle steps in. e Mick. Saved for this moment. Fate at the

plate. Bob Allen there to serve him. And he sends Bobs pitch back the other way

hard and high and Ruthian. Note how the Yankees stormed back to take the lead in

the top of the 8th on a Mantle pinch hit 3 run homer. He had just come back from

the disabled list. We stand and roar on the Midwest planes lled with sit-down

Indians. e mighty Yankees of Niagara Falls New York come back from 6-0, put

their names on top of the scorecard 9-7. I dance in the aisle. I crush peanut shells

and raise nine year arms in victory. My dad rests his on my mothers shoulder.

ey smile.

e Yankees lose 9-8. Give it up like this: one back in the 8th, then walk-o two

run circuit clout to Coates in the ninth. e Indians fans re-joyed. Me and my

parents walk out with our heads up. We move back to the point where the river

overtakes the cuesta, telling tales of Maris and Mantle and Blanchard. Like the

escarpment, carved out of me over nine innings on this day is a new wisdom that

will not be eeting. e understanding of baseball. e understanding of America.

It was worth the trip even though Cleveland won in a walk o. is is the #3 game

I ever saw.

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e Kings Cards behind a rusting Valparaiso Indiana McDonalds. Egg

sandwich wrappers, grease pits, stains, a crumbling curb mark the parking

lot. Heavy hot air. Middle July intensity dispenses roar on the senses,

embroils trac, cotton, and perspiration. e humidity haze enfogs the

trudge to the door. e sun overwhelms unsunglassed eyes. Sunshiny light

reects o the churling white paint and the silver door handle. Travel

hastily inside.

e bell rings. e airs dense and cold. eres mildew funk and the cheese

of rotting boxes. Baseball cards unsold decay enclosed in glass. Grab bags

mothball to worthless. e carpet matches the walls matches the wood.

Ordure brown. e old whiteboard ceiling, corners absent, panel lights

covered in vaseline. e white index boxes everywhere are the paper-

museums to childhood dreams. Triple-A lifers led in dark rows, smiling

boys on picture day wearing borrowed numbers, high school statistics the

only history they exist. e only hint of why theyre smiling at you. Liquid

collateral sitting on shelves demanding market prices. People printed on

paper.

He stands in place. Wearing the same cap, navy too-loose trousers, a white

t-shirt crusting in the pits, the crust matches the carpet and the wood walls.

His face shadowed by the odd and choppy lengthened stubble of a man who

hasnt shaven in a very long time. Hasnt needed to. Customers keep their

eyes on the cards. His sheltered by oversized wire glasses. He keeps aposture at the glass card case cognizantly one foot back, allows for his

oating gut. Customers avoid the look-back scowl that silences questions

and optimistic bids for bargains. e boxes stir with his cluttered breath. It

smells like a losers dugout. Infrequently but enough to notice, Old saggy

Carl pulls the hanky from a back pocket and wipes the glass with spittle. He

polishes to a sheen the security case enclosing paper vainglory. He knows

the current becket, the unrealized gains and losses, and which way they're

trending. Not once changes prices. He permeates the shop from his two

grounded feet behind the glass sinking in onetime-grey black wae shoes.

His subtle nod is the only acknowledgement nonpaper people are present.

Survey the Kings cards. Shop eciently impulsively. Peruse cautiously,

touch little. e smell and the Saggys bearing down on you demanddecisions. Quick. Break down the ver Papa slipped in-hand on the way

out on the way here. Measure value in history and change. A John Wett-

land and Bernie Williams two for one. e Frank omas Big Hurt MVP

edition, quoted for a premium secured behind independent hard-plastic.

Kenny Loon stealing second, dainty Mark McGwire in Oakland, Joe

Carter roundtrotting third with the triumph hand. Old Saggy watches over,

Oma waits by. No words spoken. Nod for the Big Hurt and a pack of Topps

with the bubblegum stalehard inside. Dont touch the glass when yielding

the ver. He meters change in-hand and passes directly. Oma takes the

other and leads to the car. Back to the Valparaiso lunacy. With summer

treats captured from the King.

The Kings Cards

AWS

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at the whim of the singer

on the microphone who

generally has no connection

to what it means to each

person to a member

of this particular country.

e extra idolatry slipped

in a couple years ago,

but no one seemed to talk

about it, so its now

standard, more standing,

singing or pretending to,

more ags, less correlation

to an individuals thought.

PEM SAW

Peer PressurePatriotism

ere has been a recent change

in pressure for patriotism

not only the National Anthem,

which some might not want

to sing to, but America the Beautiful

sung at the 7th inning stretch?

You are expected to stand

for that? People are automated

when it comes to the National

Anthem, many sing, some dont.

Many more dont know

the actual words, but pretend

to sing nonetheless. is

demand is focused on sporting

events, in particular, Americas

pastime. Continually

adding more songs and fervor

coercing attendees to stand

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ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN

IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESSWITH PITTSBURGH IN 1ST PLACE THE NATION WAS IN SHOCK

I SAW IT IN THE BOXSCORE AND I COULD HARDLY TALK

I BOUGHT A PIRATES JERSEY AND THINGS WERE LOOKING GREAT

I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT

MAYBE TIGER WOODS WILL RECOVER FROM HIS WOES

HELL KEEP IT UNDER RAPS AND FOCUS ON HIS FOES

NO MORE ESCAPADES HELL TAKE UP PUZZLES, JACKS AND CHESS

ALL SORTS OF THINGS CAN HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS

I CALLED UP ALL MY FRIENDS AND SAID PITTSBURGHS BACK!

WALKER AND McCUTCHEN ARE LEADING THE ATTACK!

THOUGH I DO NOT KNOW HALF THE GUYS WHO WALK UP TO THE PLATE


IMAGINE TERRELL OWENS NOT UTTERING A PEEP

OR BRETT FAVRE SPECULATION FINALLY PUT TO SLEEP

MAYBE ROGER CLEMENS WOULD MAN UP AND CONFESS

ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS

A HANRAHAN POSTER IS PASTED ON MY WALL

I CHERISH MY CORREIA SOUVENIR SIGNED BALL

ILL PAWN MY DOG FOR TICKETS AT AN INFLATED INTEREST RATE


THE MOTHERSHIP MIGHT SPARE US OF THE YANKEES AND THE SOX

MAYBE TIM McCARVER WILL BE SHOWN THE DOOR BY FOX

THE COACHING GURU, BELICHICK, MIGHT LEARN HOW TO DRESS


I QUIT MY STABLE JOB SO I COULD WATCH GAMES ON TV

I THREW AWAY MY CROSS NOW I WEAR THE LETTER P

I AM SO CONSUMED; MY MORTGAGE PAYMENTS LATE


LEBRON HOLDS A PRESSER AND REQUESTS AN URGENT TRADE

HE SAYS, SEND ME BACK TO CLEVELAND IM TIRED OF DWAYNE WADE

MIAMIS WHITE SAND BEACHES ARE CAUSING HIM DISTRESS


FITNESS

MY STOMACH TURNS WHEN I EAT A BIG MAC

I GET A FREE SIDE OF HEARTBURN WITH MY JUMBO JACK

TACO BELL NACHOS PRODUCE NOXIOUS GAS

AND KFC LEADS TO THE OL TRIPLE BYPASS

WORLD CLASS ATHLETES ARE LIKE FINE TUNED MACHINES

THEIR BODIES ARE TEMPLES OF PROTEIN AND GREENS

CHISELED, SCULPTED AND TOUGHER THAN STEEL

WE POKE AT THEIR BICEPS TO SEE IF THEYRE REAL

THERES A WIDENING GAP BETWEEN ATHLETES AND FANS

THEYRE LIKE GODS COMPARED TO US SLOBS IN THE STANDS

IN ANCIENT GREECE YOU WERE FORCED TO BE FIT

NOW, WHEN I RISE FROM THE COUCH I SIGH, MAN, I QUIT

BILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN HEALTHCARE AND PILLS

DIET AND FITNESS THWARTS SICKNESS AND ILLS

FOR THE SAKE OF THE BUDGET IT WOULD BE WISE

THAT A LAW REQUIRES THAT WE EXERCISE

HUNTING FOR FOOD IS A THING OF THE PAST

NO NEED FOR FITNESS WITH SURPLUS AMASSED

WE STILL VALUE VIGOR; ON FIELDS, DIAMONDS AND COURTS

WED BE LIKE BOBA FETT IF IT WASNT FOR SPORTS

MONTANA, JORDAN, DIMMAGIO,

THEYRE LIFTING WEIGHTS; IM LAYING LOW

A TWO-A-DAY ROUTINE FOR BROADWAY JOE

MAYS RUNS SPRINTS AND I CANT TOUCH MY TOES

JRF JRF

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the poets stand rst at ball games.

when mouths move in silence and whispers,

poets stand.

their skin next to cotton and weather.

dust explodes out of their mouth

exclamations made with periods pop like a catchers mitt.

ngers stretch and crumple to sts - waves of excited wain

vetted poets - their pens no more useful.players jog to dugouts and echoing concrete

win and loss glow in the fans eyes;

poets stand still and say beautiful.

grass bends nally underfoot,

the umpire collects the dust scraped game balls

he wipes the leather, deciding(ly)

he collects the poetry for his resume

or tosses it to the last kid standing -

which must be where all that sports poetry goes.

CB

where have all the sports poets gone...

chet bartels and free hotdogsindiana cornrows and baseball elds bathed in summer make the sun lastlike the mississippi is long and freckles dense.

the city cut back some corn and grass elds to make more parking so theford and chevy longbeds could idle for games and give teenagers room tomenace.

neighborhood kids pedaled porch to porch calling for a baseball game, inbright-light-mosquito-swarms with pink bubble gum by the bakersdozen, while dinner got cold on stove tops.

the ball diamonds were as close as a kiss to the chlorinated public poolwhere whistles and boyhood dreams of red-spandex-strapped-lifeguardsgallivanted in the noonday heat until the ballpark-ood-lights overowedthe concrete patio and stainless steel walls.

i wasnt an all star. i knew id never play in the major leagues. i playedcenter and second but watched plenty with two feet in tall grass, ngersthreaded through a chain-link fence.

in the mornings i always paid catatonic attention to box scores recited bymy dad in his blue uniform and three shade darker dickies - with arhythmic lap that put shakespeare to shame.

the smell of nylon mesh tops and pickled polyester pinstripes made kidsswing harder and throw farther. rag tagged.

every night. i slipped chet lemon, cecil elder, ryan sandberg, ozzie smith,and travis fryman preciously into tight and clear hardened plastic. ipolished those midwest stars october portraits spit polish shiny andshowed them to my brother. and we talked ball and stared at BECKETTlines until we went blind till the morning light.

in indiana the moms and sisters not playing soball at denny feaglermemorial eld served popcorn and pepsi at the concession stands. if youwere dusty and grass stained by the end of it all you got a free hotdog.

they grow those in indiana too, (you know) free hotdogs, buns ketchupmustard and all, fresh o the farm. but the relish, that will cost ya.

this is baseball in the midwest. at chet bartels memorial eld cars parkalong the outeld fence and ash their headlights and honk their hornsfor a homerun, which will get you two free hotdogs.

CB

7/31/2019 empire - i4

13/13

THE EMPIRE BUILDER

The Empire Builder is

SAW Sarah Wurzburg

CB Chester Bennett andAWS Andrew Strasburg

With i4 contributions from

GS Greg SimmsJRF Jonathan Ryan FurstPEM Paul Michel

i4 Design by

CA Cate Anderson

BUILD THE EMPIRE ATempirebuilderzine.com

empire - i4

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