The Pitch is on the Way: Poems About Baseball and Life

The Pitch is on the Way, Dan LiberthsonWhy You Want It:

"Anyone who knows and loves baseball will enjoy this remarkable collection of poems." —Peter A. Magowan, President and Managing General Partner, SF Giants

"Liberthson does for baseball what Robert Frost did for New England. Though I'm not a baseball fan, this book distills the game's mystique so powerfully that I long for summer and the ballpark." —Nancy Etchemendy, Award-Winning Author and Poet

"I could not put this book down. I could see, smell, and feel each scene, be there in every poem." —Brian Doyle, NY Yankees/Oakland A's infielder 1978-81

"I have reviewed your book and, quite frankly, it is a joy to read. You certainly capture the passion of the sport and the sociological influence on many millions of people over the past 130 years.".―Allan H. (Bud) Selig, Commissioner of Baseball (View Letter.)

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What It's About: Poetry can be fun--especially these vividly imagined poems with straightforward language that tell stories about baseball: what it feels like to love, play, and watch the game as a kid and as an adult. After a Foreword by Peter Magowan, President of the SF Giants, 50 poems by Dan Liberthson and 21 drawings by artist Nikki Ausschnitt depict the players and the plays. The poems paint vibrant pictures of the challenges of each position; the ups and downs of hitting and fielding; the role of support staff like umpires, coaches, and groundskeepers; baseball's fabled history; and the importance of the game to kids and grown fans. Perfectbound paperback, 6x9 in, 112 pages, © 2008.

What's Inside:

A white-lit baseball...In the hot corner...


He's like a fiddler crab...You too swing at anything...

Catcher          Catcher

Senior warrior, counselor,
he crouches at the still center,
then sets the world spinning
with the minutest sign:
the diamond breaks light
into prismatic motion,
and all the game’s colors
bloom from his glove.
Bat smolders orange with energy
sucked from the earth through
the hitter’s tensile trunk and arms,
then flares red ripping
to meet the icehard ball
that dips, dense blue,
Umpirecurves, elusive green,
waits, slow rust dream, or
melts whitehot with speed.
He sets all this in motion,
sits back and watches
for an endless moment, until
bat cracks ball, time begins,
the play explodes and then
like every other player
on that field of chance—no!
more naked than any other
despite the armor he wears,
shorn of all his powers save
the flesh of his sacrificial body,
he stands like a wooden idol
blocking the path of the force
he has let loose:
unbroken light lancing around
the diamond, burning home.

 

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