Baseball Poem

IN'69

    by Tim Peeler
 
Twelve and persistent
As the worst salesman
That ever stuck a toe in a door,
I began telling people at the church
That we were going to see the Braves. 
Now the interstate to Atlanta was still
A long, strung-out thing back then,
But I told my buddy Coffey and the Hefners
And some of the men who stood out front
In ties and shirtsleeves,
Smoking by the wall before the service.
And soon it become known
 That we were gong on an autumn Sunday,
With my frugal Dad, the dedicated minister,
Carefully picking a Lutheran church to attend-
More carefully than our field-level seats,
First base side, overweight Ken Johnson pitching
 For the Cubs, the lanky Ron Reed for the Braves
In a bright afternoon of contrasts.

My head wheeled from side to side
In the round stadium, trying to take it
All in—the sheltered preacher's son,
A bit scared of all the beer drinkers,
Amazed at the wildness and color of it all,
The remarkable green open space of the field.
Then I turned away for a blink,
I missed the sudden pop of the ball as it left Aaron's bat,
Crashing in blue seats above
Chief Noc-A-Homa's tent.
I willed the trip, the game, the day,
Then blinked at a bright piece of history
In '69. 

--- with the permission of the author, from his book of baseball poetry: 

“Waiting for Godot's First Pitch”
   More Poems from Baseball  

available from Amazon or direct from the publisher at:
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