TUPLDRF Poetry (3)

Johnny Callison was a star right fielder for the generally hapless Philadelphia Phillies of the 1960's. As a baseball-crazed youngster, I idolized the gifted left-handed slugger. My trusty transistor radio was tuned in to all Phillie game broadcasts during the magical summer evenings, as I followed Johnny C's exploits with rabid fervor. In my eyes, between the foul lines of the National League ballparks, Johnny C could do no wrong. He dramatically ended the 1964 all-star game with a home run & was mobbed at home plate by such legendary players as Willie Mays & Hank Aaron.

As a child, little did I realize that major league baseball players had personal lives, even troubling ones. Johnny's baseball career ended at the relatively young age of 34. I later found out that he did not take care of himself physically & financially. Johnny C went from baseball Adonis to car salesman & bartender with eventual heart problems.

Years later as a middle-aged man, I saw him at a small town baseball card show in central Pennsylvania. The card show attendees paid scant attention to the erstwhile hero. Johnny C autographed a picture that I brought with me of his shining moment mob scene at the '64 all-star game. A wan smile spread across his aging face…..the same face that had poetically graced Topps' bubble gum baseball cards during the 1960's.

The card show meeting was an infinitely sad experience for me. I was struck with how wizened & fragile he looked. The roar of the 60's baseball crowd in his ears stilled forever, like the inevitability of our own lives being stilled forever.

Johnny Callison died in October of 2006 at the relatively young age of 67. My parents have been gone for quite some time. Friends of mine have died tragically young. This is the nature of our existence and though it is sad….the finiteness of life makes it more delicious and more miraculous if we take the time to appreciate the startling poetry of everyday life.

The prisoner's body electric misfiring

His current running oh so deep

The draconian decree issued at birth

Though a pardon appears unlikely

At this rather late date

His fans are legion

Quite rabid they are

They sway to his rhythms

Deem his koolaid to be just right

This noble youth has pluck to spare

His jailer's tear suspended in midair drop

A heart too big to be contained in his cell

A heart too big to be contained in this poem.

The bat is poised to unleash its magnificent fury
As the soon to be punished spheroid prepares to take flight
In the majestic orbit that is both timeless & startling
The hurtling spheroid cuts a perfect arc
As it knifes its way flawlessly through the acquiescent firmament
Sans reflection
Sans protest
Sans regret
It feels the whooshing poetry
Admires its full-bodied trajectory
And can't help emitting its wan smile
In the heart of the battered ball's descent.