Robert Hershon: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Chatter

I did the Saturday puzzle on Sunday and

the Sunday puzzle on Saturday and I

watched a thousand hours of cops and robbers

when my friend assigned me the task of writing

a baseball poem, since right now there is no

baseball except in memory so I thought of

the Miracle Mets and then the Boys of Summer

but they both seemed frayed from overuse and I

began to think of the teams of my boyhood, call them

the Boys of Early Spring—Eddie Stanky and Pete Reiser

and Cookie Lavagetto,  Kirby Higbe and Ed Head and that perfect

baseball name, Dixie Walker, brother to Harry the Hat Walker,

and remembered more as a bigot who wouldn’t play with Jackie Robinson

than as an outfielder, but I didn’t know that when I was

ten and we had the only television set at 946 Bushwick Avenue

and  I watched the games by  myself with a bag of candy corn

the cheapest loose candy Woolworth’s sold, assuming

the Dodgers and I would grow old together (twelve, fourteen, beyond)

and wondering why all baseball announcers had Southern accents

and now the rich players and the even richer owners have finally

decided to play some baseball and I guess I’ll slump down and

stare at the games, by myself again, without candy corn

but maybe with a sip or two of Scotch

 

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Robert Hershon has written 15 books of poems, most recently End of the Business Day and Freeze Frame. He's won two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships and three from the New York Foundation for the Arts.  Hershon has been co-editor of Hanging Loose Press since its founding in 1966. [Ed. note: Bob Hershon passed away on March 20, 2021. See the Tribute Page for more information on Bob's life and work.]

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Comments

[Indran Amirthanayagam]

Scotch is the preferred drink of the cultivated, seasoned observer of literature and baseball. A good choice to go even further back than baseball, to the highlands, to discus and shot put and bag pipes. This poem memorializes names I for one did not know. Thank you for giving the Boys of Early Spring their names and metaphors. Thank you for the companionship of the game when watching it alone.

[Bill Zavatsky]

Another wonderful poem by a wonderful poet! Hooray!

[Carole Bernstein]

This is just wonderful and made me smile, which not very many things can do these days.

[Terence Winch]

Bob's poems have that admirable quality.

[Terence Winch]

I've been trying to convert him to Irish, but without success.

[Terence Winch]

I will add a hip-hip to your hooray.

[Indran Amirthanayagam]

A good reminder, an old habit scotch for a Ceylonese..but tastes and liberties can change, one poem and drink at a time. Henceforth, Irish whiskey to accompany the ball game.

[Chris Mason]

Thank you for posting this wonderful poem which made me remember Cookie Lavagetto, (another great baseball name!) who who the first manager of the Minnesota Twins when I was a kid.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Chris. I knew you'd like it.

[David Lehman]

Outstanding. Thank you for the "boys of early spring."

[David Lehman]

Much as I love both Irish and Scotch, I do nevertheless have to put in a good word for gin with a few drops of dry vermouth. And now that beer is verboten for me (celiac), I feel that a Tom Collins is a good choice for watching the millionaires play ball.

[Terence Winch]

That sounds good, too.

[lally]

I stopped watching baseball (except for some world series games) when the bums left brooklyn, thanks for bringing those days to life Bob...

[jack anderson]

I'm not much of a base ball fan, but I'm very much a Hershon poetry fan. He makes it all come alive. Poetry is indeed a universal language.

[Karen Sagstetter]

Thank you for this wonderful poem.
The players' names alone are enough to make me love it. The poem captures with love a sad summer without crowds at baseball games but the
sip of scotch is a great ending. I'm going to get one right now.

[Terence Winch]

I'm glad you like the poem, Karen.

[Denna Weber]

A tip of the hat, with a sip of scotch
or Ceylon tea or celestial pickings
from the refrigerator--or not.
After all, my father had his musings
and sarcastic blurbs and blots,
saying you leave and not miss a thing
and when you come back at 5 o'clock,
players and families still in their seats
might miss the big blasting shot--
so used to nothing happening.
for three hours, they missed the ball
that won my he game of the century.
Lovers of baseball would argue
perhaps the man was just fidgety
or he's in a fog sneaking all that scotch.
i