-The maple tree at Ruggles Park-
Saturday afternoon at Ruggles Park
And my Parish baseball team
Of the Fall River CYO league
Is engaged in an extra-inning struggle
With its principal rival.
Holy Rosary 8
Immaculate Conception 8
Inning 12.
It's my first year of eligibility.
I could judge a high-fly ball with accuracy
From my left field position, I threw left,
Batted left and hit a low average,
I could judge a high-fly ball with accuracy
From my left field position, I threw left,
Batted left and hit a low average,
Maybe .230 or so, strongly favoring 15 points
To the negative.
To the negative.
But I could run fast and that made me
Holy Rosary’s designated bunter.
The situation of the game was irrelevant.
When I came to the plate, my Coach would
Flash me one of only two signs.
The “Take” or the “Bunt.” That’s it.
This Saturday afternoon found me at the plate
With one out and a man on second.
A base hit will win the game.
Coach Gino DiNucci gives me the Take sign.
Strike one.
Strike one.
Gino gives me the Take sign.
Strike two.
Strike two.
Gino gives me the Take sign.
This is my place on the team as I knew it.
One on, one out, no balls, two strikes
In a tie game and Gino gives me the Take sign.
The "Imac's" pitcher, who they called “Rigger”
Was firing strikes past the letters with an adroitness
Usually reserved for the assassin with a scoped 30-06.
No balls, two strikes.
The Catcher trots to the mound to chat with “Rigger”
And I know what he’s saying:
“Rig,” Let’s dump this little prick. Fastball by the head.
The Ump’ll call “Three” to speed-up the game.
Then we’ll deal with Tacovelli.”
The fastball was chin high, off the inside corner
And I backed off the plate from the hip. “Strike three” call.
And I backed off the plate from the hip. “Strike three” call.
It was announced unemotionally,
Without the typically exaggerated intonation:
"Steeeraaaahhhheeek Three" the Umps
"Steeeraaaahhhheeek Three" the Umps
Seem to glory in. No tortured torso twist,
Or fist-punching animation.
No pomp, no ceremony. Just cold arithmetic.
"That's three. Sorry, kid."
Two outs and
I'm left standing at the plate with the bat
Resting on my shoulder in the quiet
Repose of emptiness, as "Pappy" Tacovelli
Walks toward the box, deliberately in his spikes,
Repose of emptiness, as "Pappy" Tacovelli
Walks toward the box, deliberately in his spikes,
Closing-in on the plate where I stand frozen
Like half a Popsicle.
Like half a Popsicle.
Ruggles Park was an open field. No fence. Just grass and trees.
People walked through the park's inviting atmosphere
Just beyond the outfielders positions,
Reminiscent of baseball's early days when cows and bulls
Roamed freely, careless of the count.
Off the right field line across the street stood Ruggles School,
A Middle school for the wayward in need of discipline.
The school of the Sword of Domiciles.
“Keep it up and you’ll be heading to Ruggles, mister.”
Beyond left field rising on a slow hill,
Stood the ubiquitous row of three or four-
Stood the ubiquitous row of three or four-
Story tenement houses,
Activated by the inhabitants in the summer;
The yards, the porches and the street.
From center field lay a wide expanse of grass
And to the left in the distance, from the batter's
Line-of-sight stood a large, ancient, fat-trunked maple
And I’m at the plate with the bat in my hands as useless
As last Saturday's strike-out. And then..
At the trunk of the distant maple,
A young man has pinned his sweetheart
To the wood, the spiny bark of the tree.
I can see this clearly and it seems I'm the only
Player on either side who notices
As game moved on in its beauty without me.
But here is the new outer movement,
The guy and his girl together,
Pressed to the tree out there,
Pressed in a vertical dance out there, the slow, slow
Pressure into the wood, I can sense
Pressure into the wood, I can sense
The sweat of her brow, the sweat in her hair,
Her arms, bared from the shoulders,
Loosely draping the sides of her dress in sweet surrender,
A flutter of wind in the universe they've made for themselves
Loosely draping the sides of her dress in sweet surrender,
A flutter of wind in the universe they've made for themselves
And me at the foot of the dusty plate,
The scars of three strikes on my soul,
Tacovelli moving in, swinging two bats,
Moving in, letting one fly away toward the bench,
Gripping the one at its neck, the one which
Gripping the one at its neck, the one which
Knocks the clay of the earth from his battered spikes,
The look of determination etched in his eyes
And out there the guy and his girl at the trunk of the maple
Burning a love letter into its wood.——
Immaculate Conception 9
Holy Rosary 8
In 13.
Quequechan, c.1958
