Tag: Sports

Meeting Willie Mueller

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September 20th 1981, Willie Mueller’s last day as a major league pitcher. We didn’t know that, and he probably didn’t either. My 2nd Orioles game, and I’m with my friend David on the first base line, autograph-seeking. Willie wasn’t a household name. He ended his career with one win, 7 strikeouts, & a 6.14 ERA, but David walked away with a signed baseball. Just recently, David reminded me about meeting Willie. That got me curious. It turns out that Mueller went on to star in the film Major League (1989), with Charlie Sheen. This is one of my earliest ballpark memory.

Listening To My Shortwave Radio

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you might think it was all tina turner, the cars, or tears for fears, but vinyl could only take me so far, same songs, over & over, flip to side 2, try to save allowance money for the new billy idol album, or listen to casey kasem, see if anyone fresh was in the top 40, but then i got my GE shortwave radio & became an auditory magellan, forget karma chameleon & all that pop sound, i now spent nights slowly turning the dial, on a quest to travel the airwaves, listening as the basketball play by play guy said, louisville has the ball, i added a marker dot to my map of cities: new orleans, pittsburgh, morgantown, buffalo, each night i tuned in to: games, preachers, news, weather, anything & everything, in search of a new locale, another mark for my map, of course it was more than this, i was a 1980’s lewis & clark kid, connecting with my country, & this is still what i’m doing today, except i’m the one broadcasting & you might be in croatia instead of cincinnati.

Trying Out For Colby Water Polo

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i was an athlete, six feet, maybe 190, kinda husky, remembered water polo in high school, we played in five feet of water, i liked pushing guys around, throwing the ball into the net, polk, you should come out and play with us, the colby captain said to me one night, yeah, i thought, i can play division III water polo, the first practice was two days later, i borrowed a speedo and headed down to the pool, ok fellas, we will start with 20 laps, at this moment i should have walked away, i had never swam more than a couple laps in my life, but i was too embarrassed, so i got in, labored through 7 exhausting laps, then quietly exited the water, went to the locker room, put on my clothes, and pretended the whole thing never happened.

Althea Gibson

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from south carolina, harlem really, street fighter, paddle tennis champion, her younger years spent competing, and surviving a violent father, that story, the one where abuse makes humanity stronger, while most wither away, not to say her name is like serena or venus, fame swallowed by racist history, they let her play, but pretended she wasn’t really there, regardless, althea gibson with the volley, the lob, the slice backhand, the victory  

1987 Basketball Hero

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I shoot baskets like no one is watching. No one is
watching, except me, dream of youth, of future stardom, of
current stardom. Driveway hero of every game, concrete cracks
little lines where I place my sneakers, then heave up shot after
shot toward the red rim, its gravity like a sun, my sun, basketball
that sphere of influence. Minutes become an hour, become time itself.
Stand here, move there, under the hoop, arms and legs
leaping toward the sky.

With NY Giants Pitcher Johnny Antonelli

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My grandfather was a pitcher in the Cape Cod Baseball League before serving in World War II. He enjoyed sports and spending time with other athletes. During his retirement years in Florida he played golf with Johnny Antonelli. Antonelli was the ace pitcher (21-7 with a 2.30 ERA) for the New York Giants in 1954 when they won the World Series. I spent a day with Johnny and my grandfather watching spring training games in 1986. Antonelli let me wear his World Series ring for an entire game. Johnny Antonelli died just this past February at the age of 89. More about him: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Antonelli

Playing Left Field

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Standing as if a sundial, my hand, a glove shadowing time.
Waiting for the ball I blink, wink, chew gum, itch my rear,
because nobody is watching me out in the wilderness where
gnats and sun, smell of cut grass envelop me, make me
a tall insect wearing stripes, socks hiked up high. I pace, shuffle
cleats, shout “Hey Batter, Batter,” as if my distant voice matters.

Take away white lines, the small crowd, he’s just a bushy haired
boy in a quiet meadow, looks like he might be talking to himself.
Or god knows who he is or what he is doing out there alone, a 
quiet king with monarchs that flutter by. Until wooden bat breaks 
daydreams, interrupts his nature, baseball soars over his head.