Tim Wakefield

Well, for those of you not in Boston. or those who happen to not love the Red Sox, the game last night probably meant little to you. But, as usual, baseball fever has enveloped Beantown.

The only sour part of the whole affair for us die hard Red Sox fans is the lack of Tim Wakefield on the World Series roster. While this may or may not be solely due to his inflamed shoulder, Wakefield is a personal favorite of mine. A member of the Sox since 1995, Wakefiled is third all-time for the Red Sox in wins behind Roger Clemens and Cy Young.

So while the win last night was so, so sweet, the only thing missing was Wakey.

Picture above is from Boston.com

In honor of Tim Wakefield, I am posting a poem written (first draft at least) on the back of a series of postcards in Crossroads (corner of Mass Ave. and Beacon Street) in-between watching Wakefield work his magic with the knuckle ball. I'd raced there to meet some friends to watch the game and had to listen to the first inning on the radio on the car ride there. There are a lot of things you might be able to picture in your head during a baseball game on the radio, the chaos of a beautiful knuckle ball is not one of them.

The poem was included, along with "Blue"and "St. Augustine's," in a show at City Hall in Boston a few years ago. I hope you enjoy. And, of course, Go Sox.

RED SOX/ROYALS— MAY 7, 2004
(9 POSTCARDS TO MARTIN)

I.
You can’t hear a knuckleball
over radio, no matter how hard
you listen to the leather
sink and spin through summer
air. Stop trying to hear wind
move— close your eyes
instead. You just might see.


II.
White uniforms, green grass
(being green), broken-in base-
ball hats, the brims stained
with salt and sweat. But you’ll
never hit a knuckleball
the way you’re listening.


III.
Don’t forget
the air even
when you’re
watching it too
much. Swallowing
summer is more
appealing here.


IV.
Don’t forget
the summer, even
when you drink too
much and swing
wildly at knuckle-
balls; grass clippings
at your shoes.


V.
Don’t forget the promises
you made before you stepped
into the batter’s box—

that you’d be cautious
in this summer air. Stop
staring at your shoelaces.

Baseball is the reason
summer was invented.


VI.
There’s no more magic left
in baseball, once you realize
the lights are burning out.

This
game
is
growing
between us.

The scoreboard numbers,
twisted.
The springtime air,
confused.


VII.
Don’t hit the knuckle-
ball.
Don’t you hit
the air.
Don’t hit your
baseball glove
with fists.
The game is almost
over.


VIII.
Baseball was invented
to give drunkards
a sense of peace
in an impossibly irregular
spring. Knuckleballs
were invented
by conjuring brandy
in a glass of summer air
and sucking on an ice cube.

Nothing is there
when you look for it.


IX.
Count the seconds
until summertime
is over. It’s that way
when looking for white
to separate from the air.

It’s that way
when swallowing something
you almost understand
then looking for it later.
You know you are confused.