The Power of Poetry

With Casey at the Bat

Last week I posted a video presentation of the poem, “Casey at the Bat,” by Ernest Thayer. Written in 1888, the classic American poem is a light-hearted celebration of America’s favorite pastime. Thinking about that poem reminded me of a pivotal time in my own life back in the summer of 1963.

As I third-grader, the upcoming summer posed new opportunities.  The one my father was pushing me toward was joining a Little League baseball team. During that spring, all of my classmates were getting excited about baseball, the way most kids do. It was during that time that my mother found the poem, “Casey at the Bat,” that had been reprinted in The Saturday Review. I read the poem and was thrilled by the words and the drama that unfolded. I took that page from the magazine and folded it neatly to carry in my back pocket. For the next several days, I would read it whenever I got the chance.

Somehow I got the notion that I could memorize “Casey at the Bat.” I continued to work at it until I was able to recite the entire piece “by heart.” Looking at the poem now, I am surprised that a third-grader took on such a challenge.

A Troublesome Time

Little League, however, was a disastrous failure. My un-athletic and uncoordinated body made me afraid to even try out for a team. For the first time, I felt like a disappointment to my father and an outcast from my peers.  That failed summer cast a blight upon my ability to enjoy even attending a game for years to come.

It took me far too long to recover from that baseball failure, but as an adult, I can look back in genuine amazement at that eight-year-old boy who imagined that he could recite a thirteen stanza poem from memory. If it had been a school assignment, he might have balked, but something about that poem engaged him. Something in him decided to rise up and do the work needed to accomplish the task.

I did not know it at the time, but that summer marked a crossroads in my life. It was like an ax, splitting away what was not in my nature and revealing what was true to my nature. It was impossible for me to recognize then or in the intervening years that followed, but it was the play of poetry that became the redeeming moment of that troublesome childhood event. 

Poetic Call

I was in the second grade when I wrote my first poem, fascinated that I could find words that rhyme to tell a story. It was poetry that would continue to call at odd moments of my passage through junior high and high school. It was poetry that would say to me, “Pick up your pen and write. You can do this!” For me, it was like the bashful young Caedmon's guide who came to him in a dream and encouraged him to sing of “the beginning of created things.”

Even if I had managed all those years ago to make the team, I doubt that at my age today I would have any notions of getting back on the baseball diamond to toss a few for the love of the game. But I can still catch a word and send it flying in a sonnet. I can field a phrase and toss it into a haiku, or send a cutter of simile along the line of a free verse stanza. Playing with words is a skill that one can continue to hone throughout a lifetime.

Most redeeming of all, I can look back in admiration at that eight-year-old boy who memorized “Casey at the Bat,” and say, “Great job, son! Who else could do that like you at your age?”

For me, poetry holds a two-fold power: the divining power of revealing my nature, and the healing power of allowing me to go back in time to speak a word of encouragement to the lad I once was.

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Finding America on the Fourth of July

Downtown Woodstock, Georgia getting ready for the Fourth
 (Cherokee Tribune photo)

On this Fourth of July, there will be church barbeques, small-town parades and fireworks displays in cities across the nation. I heard that there is some kind of big to do up in our nation’s capital involving tanks and such. I’m staying home, though, where the real America is lived out each day. I’m going to delight in the idea of all of those small town picnics and plates of barbeque served by volunteers out of church basements and fellowship halls.

I’m also going to think about those things that have inspired me about life in America since my childhood days.  Maybe I’ll think about baseball. After all, we call it our national pastime. The game has inspired such movies as Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, A League of Their Own, Bad News Bears, The Natural, and Angels in the Outfield. 

I hope there are some baseball games going on somewhere on the Fourth, maybe sponsored by local Kiwanis or Lions Clubs. I remember one Fourth of July when I actually saw my mother in a baseball game. There was a day of festivities there in the small town of Jackson's Gap, Alabama. The community gathering was at the school where there was space for barbeque, pony rides, and other activities. There was a small ball field with bleachers where the baseball games took place.

My older brother came up to me and said, "Did you know Mom's going to play baseball?" I couldn't believe it, but there was a women's game coming up and they had talked Mom into playing. I must have been about six years old, but I can still remember watching her step up to the plate and actually getting a hit!

I have some wonderful memories generated by baseball. We could walk down to our small town ballpark on warm summer nights to watch the little league teams play. We kids enjoyed the summer night outings, the snow cones, and the gathering of friends before we understood the game. Then there were the peanuts.

There was a fellow in our home town who was at every outdoor event (which meant baseball and football) selling his own roasted peanuts. Everyone called him “Jam-up,” I suppose it was because he was a thin man, with a hunched back, but that was how he was known. Everyone liked Jam-up, and his peanuts were always perfectly roasted.

The game is so full of fun that we are disturbed when things go awry. The country was shocked by the “Black Sox Scandal” in which eight major league members were barred from the game for intentionally losing the 1919 World Series game. The memorable line from that story, “Say it ain’t so, Joe,” was reportedly uttered by a boy to “Shoeless" Joe Jackson, one of the eight team members indicted in that scandal, as he left the courtroom. I felt the same way the year that Sammy Sosa’s bat cracked, revealing a cork interior, and many have felt that way with the issue of performance-enhancing drugs.

Perhaps it is the memory of those small-town little league games that is where the true essence of baseball lies. There we saw the magic of teamwork along with the impressive individual feats of skill. We learned about winning, losing, and those especially harrowing moments when we were “Oh so close.” Then we all went back to our homes, talked about it a little bit, maybe recounted it with friends the next day, and then it was on to something else. 

Here’s hoping that we can let our national pastime can teach us a bit about how to navigate our national troubles. The game has endured scandals, cheats, bumbling owners, money schemes, and a few missed calls. In spite of it all, the game goes on. I can still enjoy a summer’s evening watching the Birmingham Barons out on the baseball diamond while visiting with friends and finding those snow cones and roasted peanuts. It’s still one place we can go to find America.

Birmingham's Regions Field (Photo from Baseball Parks.com)

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The Poetry of Baseball

Last week, I was thinking that I needed to veer away from poetry for a while in this blog. Then I was reminded from several different corners that April is “National Poetry Month.” I was also reminded by my sports enthusiast friends that the opening day of baseball season was coming up. It happened yesterday, the first crack of the bat, the President tossing out the first pitch, already an amazing play noted in that game with the Red Sox and the Yankees.

All of this reminded me of the first poem I committed to memory that was not a nursery rhyme. I was in the third grade, and the poem was “Casey at the Bat,” by Ernest Thayer. It was spring, and all of my classmates were getting excited about baseball. My mother showed me the poem that was reprinted in The Saturday Review. I read the poem and was thrilled by the words and the drama that unfolded. I took that page from the magazine, folded it neatly to carry in my back pocket. For the next several days, I would read it whenever I got the chance. Somehow I got the notion that I could memorize it. I continued to work at it until I was able to recite the entire piece "by heart." Looking at the poem now, I am a bit amazed that that third grader took on such a challenge. If my teacher had made it an assignment, I’m sure I would have balked.

There were many other great memories generated by baseball. We could walk down to our small town ball park on warm summer nights to watch the teams play. We kids enjoyed the snow cones and the gatherings before we understood the game. Then there were the peanuts. There was a fellow in our home town who was at every outdoor event (which meant baseball or football) selling his own roasted peanuts. Everyone called him “Jam-up,” I suppose it was because he was a thin man, with a hunched back, but that was how he was known. Everyone liked Jam-up, and his peanuts were always perfectly roasted.

We call it our national pastime. The game has inspired such movies as Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, A League of Their Own, Bad News Bears, The Natural and Angels in the Outfield. The game is so full of fun that we are disturbed when things go awry. The country was shocked by the “Black Sox Scandal” in which eight major league members were barred from the game for intentionally losing the 1919 World Series game. The memorable line from that story, “Say it ain’t so, Joe,” was reportedly uttered by a boy to “Shoeless" Joe Jackson, one of the eight team members indicted in that scandal, as he left the courtroom. I felt the same way the year that Sammy Sosa’s bat cracked, revealing a cork interior, and many have felt that way with the issue of performance enhancing drugs.

Maybe it is the memory of those small town little league games that is where the true essence of baseball lies. There we saw the magic of teamwork along with the impressive individual feats of skill. We learned about winning, losing, and those especially harrowing moments when we were “Oh so close.” Then we all went back to our homes, talked about it a little bit, maybe recounted it with friends the next day, and then it was on to something else.

I may get out to the ballpark more this year. These days, the television producers won’t let you actually see the game. Instead, we are given a montage of three-second close-ups of players throughout the game along with frequent head shots of the play-by-play announcers. You don’t get that broad panoramic view of the field, showing the delightful symmetry of the game. That is were the poetry of the game takes place.



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