Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle
Sports Saturday
Here’s a Marianne Moore poem for those fans undergoing the shock of a baseball playoffs without the New York Yankees. It’s only the second time they’ve missed the playoffs in 19 years and the first time since 2008. The nice thing about being a Yankees fan is that you can comfort yourself with many glorious memories.
I remember vividly growing up with the team that Moore celebrates here. Elston Howard, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Tony Kubek, Clete Boyer, Whitey Ford—what a cast of memorable players that was! The poem appears to weave together announcer comments during the game with player comments afterwards.
As a fan of the Baltimore Orioles, who also missed the playoffs, I’ll miss having the hated Yankees to root against this year.
Baseball and Writing
By Marianne Moore
(Suggested by post-game broadcasts)
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement–
a fever in the victim–
pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited? Might it be I?
It’s a pitcher’s battle all the way–a duel–
a catcher’s, as, with cruel
puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
back to plate. (His spring
de-winged a bat swing.)
They have that killer instinct;
yet Elston–whose catching
arm has hurt them all with the bat–
when questioned, says, unenviously,
“I’m very satisfied. We won.”
Shorn of the batting crown, says, “We”;
robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
the massive run need not be everything.
“Going, going . . . ” Is
it? Roger Maris
has it, running fast. You will
never see a finer catch. Well . . .
“Mickey, leaping like the devil”—why
gild it, although deer sounds better–
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
one-handing the souvenir-to-be
meant to be caught by you or me.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
He is no feather. “Strike! . . . Strike two!”
Fouled back. A blur.
It’s gone. You would infer
that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, “Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.”
All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which
won the pennant? Each. It was he.
Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos–
like Whitey’s three kinds of pitch and pre-
diagnosis
with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
catch your corners–even trouble
Mickey Mantle. (“Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!”
With some pedagogy,
you’ll be tough, premature prodigy.)
They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying
indeed! The secret implying:
“I can stand here, bat held steady.”
One may suit him;
none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
require food, rest, respite from ruffians. (Drat it!
Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow’s milk, “tiger’s milk,” soy milk, carrot juice,
brewer’s yeast (high-potency–
concentrates presage victory
sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez–
deadly in a pinch. And “Yes,
it’s work; I want you to bear down,
but enjoy it
while you’re doing it.”
Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
if you have a rummage sale,
don’t sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion,
your stars are muscled like the lion.
Added note: An enlightening interpretation of this poem can be found at Ladasha’s Blog. Among her comments are the following:
It seems to me that Moore was inspired to write this poem while listening to the pressbox “owlman” commentated the game on the radio. Because she cannot see the game, she has to rely on only the commentator. This is the same as writing – the audience can rely only the author. Perhaps this is what makes it so exciting, so thrilling, and so suspenseful.
And
The stadium is studded with stars, being players, who make up a constellation of Orion with belt and crown. The belt refers to the three stars (the three outfielders) and the crown can be taken to mean victory. Orion is also known as the “hunter” which brings together all of the hunting and animal imagery. These players are muscled like a lion, meaning they are strong. I couldn’t find the definition of “adastrium” anywhere, so I began to look into Latin roots. “Ad astra” means to the stars…This is a good closing to the poem because it brings together all comparisions about writing and baseball: both are difficult, but in the end, the end point is enjoyable and worth it.