-The maple tree at ruggles park-

Saturday afternoon at Ruggles Park

And my Parish baseball team
Of the old Fall River CYO league 

Is engaged in an extra-inning struggle

With its principal rival.

Holy Rosary 8

Immaculate Conception 8

Inning 12.

I was a good left fielder, left-handed
And hit a low average.
Maybe .230 or so.

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.

Gino gives me the Take sign. Strike one.

Gino gives me the Take sign. Strike two.

Gino gives me the Take sign.

This is the universe as I knew it.

One on, one out, no balls and 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 my chest 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.”

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.”

“Strike Three” call. 
Said unemotionally,
Without the typically exaggerated intonation
The "Steeeeraaaahhhhk" three call the Umps
Seem to glory in. No tortured torso twist, 
Or arm-punching animation.
No pomp, no ceremony. Just cold arithmetic
Like he's saying: "Sorry kid."


Two outs. 

I stand at the plate with the bat

Above my shoulder in the quiet
Circular motion of its head,

Knees bent slightly, legs in my favored 

Close-stance position, frozen that way,

Like posing for somebody's clay relief,
As Tacovelli walked
Deliberately in his spikes, 

Closing-in on the plate where I'm frozen like a Popsicle,
The game moving on without my assistance.

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 with cows and bulls 
Roaming around freely, careless of the count.

Beyond Right field, across the street stood Ruggles School,

A school for the wayward. A school of threat.
The school of the Sword of Domiciles. 

“Keep it up and you’ll be heading to Ruggles, young man.”

Beyond Left Field rising from a slow hill, stood the three- 
Story tenement houses, active in the summer;
The yards, the porches and the street below.

Beyond Center Field lay a long stretch of grass
And to the left in the distance, from the batter's
Line-of-sight stood an ancient, fat-trunked, maple

And I’m at the plate with the bat in my hands as useless

As yesterday's strike-out. And then..

At the base of the maple,

A young man has pinned his sweetheart

To the wood, to the bark of the tree.
I can see this clearly and I seem to be the only
Player who notices.
The game was moving on in its beauty 
Without me. 
But the new outer movement

Becomes this guy and his girl moving together,
Pressed to the tree, 
Pressed in a leaning dance,

A slow, slow circle in the motion of hips,

Tilts of their heads, up and around, 

Sweat of his hair sweats to her hair,

The milk of her arms loosely dropped at her dress

Like spilled porcelain, a flutter of wind,

The universe they've made for themselves 
Spinning around them, around the great maple,

And me at the foot of my dusty plate,
With the scars of three strikes coating my throat

And young love’s hot performance 
Playing out in the distance,

Tacovelli moving in, swinging two bats,
Letting one fly behind him, holding the one, the one
Knocking the clots of dirt from his battered cleats,
The look of determination etched in his eyes
And me, walking slowly toward the dugout, glancing to center
And 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