Day Game

by Stephanie Landis

Time lurches on at Comiskey Park— Comiskey the old dame in dowdy dress, Comiskey the baseball fever ward. Koosman's pitching, conducting the ruckus, And I can see his face— His nose as long as my foot, The flips of hair above his ears. He drills the ball in like a small pearl, A mallet that cracks into Pudge Fisk's mitt— Clean strike. Rising hollering sweeps the stands, My bladder a watermelon full of beer But I don't leave. We pound our seats, We push, we praise, we goad: strike two. Koosman's cool as cream. He leans back While we burst blood vessels, flips up his glove, Going to work while I'm jumping in my seat. The pitch spins like a dervish from his hand— Strike three! Every scoured throat in the place erupts, Launching exultant howls into the stratosphere, And time pauses at Comiskey Park— Portrait of mass baseball insanity with crushed peanut shells.

Hey Bob,

I just chanced on your site while poking around looking for cards, and I really enjoyed it. I'm a White Sox fan, but I've always kinda had a soft spot for the Mets, and I always liked Jerry Koosman too. So when the Sox got him, I thought that was a pretty cool deal, and I wrote a poem about it, set in the late, lamented Old Comiskey. Anyhow, I just thought you'd like it, and figured it'd be at least a little payback for all the work you obviously put into your site.

Enjoy the rest of the season--I know I will! :)

Sincerely,

Stephanie S. Landis
Mount Joy, PA

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