NLCS Jottings

How tall must you stand, how far
From this world
Until, as a cloud,
Nobody knows what your shadow is?

Wisconsin. Wisconsin! Unsaid,
Too casual to show up in discussion
(or is it just a constraint pointing my way?)
Wisconsin, divisional champions. Missouri, wild cards,
Though I too can pull away
St. Louis from Kansas City.
An arbitrary imposition–
nobody would claim arbitration
Is arbitrary, if not
Judging from far away
And much that is not just discussions of salary.

Judging in words, if words that sound halfway
Grammatical, can sound broad.
Lash out at a sign,
A stand-in for many similar or
Dissimilar things.
A proxy, a symbol,
A goat.
Or throw off grammar, form, constraint,
Writing for your bright cohorts
Who know with a wink what you want to
(Though you wouldn’t, you know, not in just that way)
Say.

A young man…not so young, not as young
As all who mock. And not as old
As all who stand tall and jab softly.

What can you watch on TV? An at-bat.
A pitch thrown towards a man in a mask.
A batsman, bat in hands, not facing you, not facing
A backstop. So in a right look
At southpaws anyway.
Or a hit ball–a shortstop grabs, runs, throws,
A tiny blur in uniform runs backwards
Towards a far wall, puts his hand up, and?
Anything.

Or it can zoom in, not at action, not at anything,
Just a thing to look at,
A moundsman, light, bill down,
Not looking at you
But how far from far!

Or cut away
To Tony La Russa.
I am not good with knowing
Who is who, who looks how
But now I think I know
Tony La Russa’s staring stand.
I think.

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Bottom of the Seventh

Twenty-six, twenty-seven? They should be your prime, in sports terms. For the Metrodome, though, this is the end.

There were two outs in the bottom of the seventh when Nick Punto singled. Top of the order; Gomez singled too, though it looked like E6 to me. Bring in the lefty.

Someone out of left field, I guess, whose T-shirt seemed like it bore the retro Brewers logo, jumped into left field. Security removed him from the field. This didn’t get into the Press or Tribune–no sense giving him glory? Oh well.

Then up stepped our Joe, gloriously returning from the DL by homering in the first inning.  He got hit, it turned out, but only following some dispute. Ron emerged from the dugout, provoking crowd cheers, while the scorer didn’t inform us of the hit-by-pitch (unlike the sixth inning, when we did see the “ruling” (everybody knew he’d gotten hit, why bother to put it up?) for the other Joe, Crede (who homered too).

Some supporter behind us told Justin to force retribution on the pitcher. Justin sent the first pitch he got over the floppy right-field “fence”.

Bring in the righty.

Only on the ride home did “four runs scored” sink in. I turned on one tiny light to see my pencil, noting Punto’s run on the thing I bought inside the dome. My beloved independent press sold out, now limited to one flimsy sheet telling us how to find the K/BB number (hint: divide Ks by BBs).

Then I turned the light off, riding into the suburbs.