Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

I live in this town
This town that holds my childhood memories
Like you holding my clueless hand at the City Hopkins dance.
You seemed to never let go
Like the grass that stains my Blue, Sky Jeans.

I live in this town
This town that hosted many little league baseball games,
Hosted many right fielders prancing around the blue skies
Picking dandelions off of the ground.
These right fielders are looking at the jet streams in the clear skies
Imagining the streams are people are launching into space.

That’s funny
Its crazier than their dreams
Which are sealed up in their own imaginations
Like the fairytales they read about.
Yet their dreams hold opportunities
Holding like my mom dragging me to the bus on the first day of school.

Heh School
A place where reality slowly kicks in
Notes are passed around with pencils being thrown at the ceiling like darts
The girl I've known since pre K gave me a note today
We used to swing on that tire swing near the golf course
But now she kicks my skins and accuses me of “cootieness”

Meanwhile she is sitting on the front porch
Picking petals off of a sunflower
Does he like me?
Does he like me not?
Does he like me?

I live in this Town
This town that holds many monsters in the closet
Although on the outside of the story shows tinker bell shedding her pixie dust
If you flip through the pages
You will fall down the rabbit hole.

He’d always had the fastball.
It was, according to the second-tier phys ed teachers
And young, un-tenured math instructors
Who comprised the area’s high school coaching community,
Unlike any pitch they’d ever seen,
And the hapless shortstops and left-fielders
Who meekly waved in its general direction as it crossed the plate
Simply shook their heads, glared out toward the mound,
Or, in the case of one chunky red-haired clean-up hitter
From up in Clearfield,
Threw a bat at him in a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
(He’d simply stood on the mound,
Grinning as the piece of wood sailed harmlessly by,
And he’d yelled back in at their bench,
Listen you bunch of woodchucks,
There ain’t nothing you can do to me
With a bat in your hands no way no how.)

His success was uninterrupted, unparalleled,
With no taint of failure or adversity
(He’d always told the scouts who asked him to pitch from the stretch
Mister, when I’m pitching, ain’t nobody gets on base.)
And when he’d signed his contract,
Which included a bonus of twenty-five hundred dollars
(Little more than chump change to the ballclub,
But all the **** money in the world to him),
He’d figured it was just the first step
In an inexorable process to the big time
The possibility that he could be no more than an afterthought
Never so much as crossing his mind,
But though he had the fastball, it was no more imposing
Than several dozen other pitchers in the organization,
And it had the tendency to be straight as a string
On its journey to home plate,
Easy prey for players who had grown up
Facing good pitching twelve months a year,
And his other offerings
(The notion of needing a Plan B on the mound
Having scarcely occurred to him)
Were rudimentary and unpolished things,
Child-like roundhouse curves,
Change-ups which announced themselves
Long before they ever left his hand,
Plus lacked what the scouts and developmental types
Liked to call a “projectable body”,
No six-foot-six, no frame that spoke of growth and untapped power.
He still had the dream, but offered the big club little to dream upon.

He spent a couple of years in short-season ball in Upstate New York,
(In a small, down-on-what-little-luck-it-ever-had city
Where the right field fence
Butted up against a maximum security prison)
Cleaning up the messes in blowout losses,
Soaking up innings on cold, damp early June evenings
In places like Watertown or Little Falls,
Where the threat of frost lingered almost until the summer solstice,
So that those arms which were part of the big team’s future wouldn’t be put at risk, Spending his late mornings and later evenings
In any number of identical shopping malls, Super 8’s and Comfort Inns,
Bars named The Draught Dodger or Pub-N-Grub,
Where the women of one A.M. appeared to be intoxicating, glamorous,
But were all dark roots and crow’s feet
In the grainy light of early morning,
Pale tell-tale halos on the left ring-finger,
The redhead of Erie indistinguishable from the blonde in Oneonta.

He knew that he was simply a spare part, a body to fill out a roster,
But come his third spring with the organization,
He’d asked--begged, really--for another full season,
One final shot to make good,
But the farm director just sat back and smiled ruefully.
Son, he said after a seemingly endless pause,
We’re all pretty much day-to-day.
After a few weeks back Upstate
(He’d only pitched once, to one batter,
Who he ended up walking on four pitches),
A new crop of polished collegians and high-school hotshots
Were signed on the dotted line and ready to roll,
And one night, just before the team bus was leaving for Batavia,
He was called in to the manager’s office,
Where he heard what he had dreaded,
But knew was coming as sure as sunrise:
End of the line, kid.
We have to let you go.

So he went home.  
He’d laid low at first,
Dodging the polite small talk or wordless looks
Which all boiled down to What are you doin’ back here?
Eventually, he emerged from his old bedroom at home,
And if someone at the Market Basket or the bar at the Kinzua House
Asked him what went wrong,
He’d shrug and say he’d got caught in a numbers game,
Or it was politics--The guys they spend a million bucks on
get a million chances, Y’know?
But he knew that for those kids
Who had never been good enough to dream,
The notion that Bobby Rockett couldn’t make it
Said something about their own futures
Which was too bleak, too awful to contemplate.


A couple of weeks after he was home,
His official release arrived in the mail,
The ballclub’s logo all but jumping off the envelope,
Bold , bright gold star with one point tailing off
In a hail of inter-stellar dust, comet-like, into nothingness.
He hadn’t bothered to open it before he chucked it into the trash bin
(Though he almost immediately regretted its loss,
His playing career already a different life,
With few tangible bits of proof to prove he’d been someone, something.)
He supposed he’d go get a job at the mill,
Or maybe go into selling insurance with his dad,
And there was always a pretty good semi-pro league in Pittsburgh
If he got the jones to do some pitching
(Still, that was a two hour drive each way,
And somehow he never just got around to doing that.)
Some nights, just before sunset,
He would drive out to the high school ballfield
Glove and bucket of ***** in hand,
And, wearing a good landing spot with his battered spikes,
He would throw (the motion so easy, so clean,)
Pitch after pitch across the plate,
The knowledge that his velocity was more or less undimmed
Leading him to smile grimly, almost conspiratorially to himself
As throw after throw rattled the backstop,
Sounding for all the world like so many metallic crows
Settling into a grove of scrub trees on a late August evening,
The nights growing imperceptibly longer
As they proceeded inexorably toward autumn.

Sunday morning on a dusty local diamond,
We gather together around about nine.
We try to recapture the glory of our youth
With bodies that, decidedly, are well past their prime.

I strike a line drive between two chubby fielders
By the time I reach third I am gasping for breath.
The coach waves his arms to encourage me home
But what I need now is an oxygen tent.

Charlie got sunburned and Eddy got drunk
Johnny went hitless and James split his pants.
When the last out is made we have lost ten to seven.
We all dreamed of the Pros, but we hadn’t  a chance.

We repair to Shenanigans to have some libations,
Some burgers and brews will ease aches and pains
We share dubious tales of our former glories;
When talent has faded- illusions remain.

Gray Mountain, Arizona

                                      October 2nd, 1995

Out of gas again! The chill that ran down the back of my neck when passing that last open gas station should have given me pause. I was so sure there was still a gas station open in the middle of the Navajo Nation, one that served great fry-bread, and one that would get me to Tuba City with a quarter tank to spare. As I fiddled with the radio, tuning into the Navajo language network, the fear inside of me was already questioning what the night might bring.

Six years had passed since I had been down this road. The gas station I remembered was now boarded up and deserted, just like the dreams of most of the people it used to serve. With not enough gas to either press onward or go back, I became a prodigal wanderer in search of a distant Samaritan. I was now seeking in the remoteness of my spirit — the hospitality of the kind.

                        In The Remoteness Of My Spirit

In eight more miles, I saw a gravel road leading to a small ranch house a quarter of a mile at its end. To the right of the house sat a Hogan, telling of native inhabitants inside. In this part of the west, near the New Mexico / Arizona border, it was assuredly Zuni or Navajo, and I bet Navajo, as I parked the bike and walked up the long stone driveway.

I left the bike back on the road to seem like less of an intruder and walked up to the front door while rehearsing what I would say. I was hoping that someone was home, and if they were, that they would open the door. People were very scarce in these parts, and new people usually brought trouble along with them as part of their welcome.

To my great surprise, an attractive middle-aged native woman opened the door before I knocked and said: “Yes, can I help you?” They were warm words coming from the middle of such loneliness that surrounded me, and I explained to her my situation and that my gas was almost gone. She looked down the long gravel driveway for what seemed like forever and then said: “The only gas that my husband Charles and I have is in our white pickup truck which is around back.”

She told me that her name was Juanita, and she was sure that her husband would help me. She then said: “He has just gone into the Hogan ‘to sweat’ and would not be out for more than an hour. If you will remove your shirt and shoes, you could go in and join him, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Just make sure to announce your presence before walking through the flap.”

Still in my heavy riding suit, I took off my jacket and shirt and the padded boots I wore for touring. I felt a greater weight being lifted from me than just the clothes that I removed, and although I didn’t understand the feeling, I wanted to go inside.

I walked the short distance to the Hogan and stood outside its entrance wondering how I would feel having a stranger walk in on me. The silence of the open spaces overwhelmed me, as the sound of my heartbeat was the only thing I heard. With all that was inside me, I heard myself say: “Charles, my name’s Kurt, and your wife Juanita said it would be OK to come in and talk.” I stood there for a minute that seemed more like an hour until I heard a muffled voice from inside say: “All right, please enter.”

As I stepped through the flap the temperature change consumed me, and the steam coming off the hot rocks made it difficult to see. In the far corner of the Hogan, and with his back to the wall, sat an Indian man bare-chested and shoeless, with his head bowed and hiding his eyes. He had a bright yellow, green, and red bandana tied around his forehead. Its tails drifted down his back with the two ends resting on his belt. With his head still lowered he spoke again, asking: “Please sit down and tell me what has brought you to this place.”

I explained that my bike was almost empty, and he paused for a long moment before saying: “Your path has today led you in the direction of your own choosing. Sometimes without looking we most find our way. You now need to be able to find this inside of yourself once you leave”

                             Sometimes Without Looking …

Finally raising his head, he invited me to sweat with him. Already feeling the effects of the steam, and without any hesitation I said, yes, and we sat there in silence as all things started to change. He asked if I knew why the native man does this? I said: “It was for purification, and to come in contact with himself.” Then raising his head slightly, he said: “You surprise me strange visitor, you know more than was required and more than most know.” He then told me “I was expected,” and that he knew I was coming. He had known it inside himself since the last moon.”

                         He Had Known I Was Coming

He then spoke again: “We also sweat to come in contact with our past lives and those of our ancestors. It strips us of all place and time, focusing only on what’s real. Bow your head and think of nothing, and let the steam come inside you being thankful that on this day the Great Spirit has brought you to me. I will know what is happening, you don’t need to tell me, just feel the steam reach inside you as it frees you from all else.” As I did, a peace replaced my conscious self, and I felt my body leave the dwelling. I saw a distant ball-field of my youth, long ago and very far away.

My father was pitching to my grandfather who was catching. The in-fielders were all faceless and the outfield was gone. Through a connected vision I watched my grandfather pass a signal to my father, and staring as hard as I could I watched for the ball. My father wound up, pitching something toward me, and as it got closer it turned into a white bird with red eyes. The bird flew down low and went completely around me, and then coming up from behind, it rested on top my head.

I could feel its sharp talons grab my scalp as we lifted off slowly. Our speed increased, as we traveled to great heights out of the ballpark and into the dark. I don’t know if the flight lasted minutes or hours. I know that I did see my whole life, both the past and what was to come. I saw my children’s, children’s, children, standing off in the distance, all wearing a sign asking: “What is my name?”

We flew over the Great Canyon, the home of my Mother. We swooped down on the river as our reflections were released to the sky. At the North Rim. the talons let go and my body was now weightless, and in a mindless free motion I was allowed to begin again.

With this, I heard the gentle voice of Charles calling my name. Not from anywhere outside, but his voice was calling from within saying to me that: “Everything was all right and it was now time to come back.” I opened my eyes and Charles was still sitting with his head bowed before me, and without my uttering a word he said: “Ok, let’s go get you some gas.”

I ran to the bike and got the plastic siphon hose from the trunk, as Charles backed his truck down the long driveway, parking it as close to me as he could. We stood there and watched the small tube breath new life into the Venture, and he insisted that I fill the tank all the way to the top. I tried to pay him, but he refused and only asked for a favor — asking if he could ride on the back of the bike with me to a spot about five miles distant.

I waved to Juanita as we took off together, and in a few short minutes he tapped my shoulder saying: “This is the place.” As he got off the bike, there appeared to be nothing but desert and rock in the fading light. I watched him for as long as I could as he slowly walked East off into the darkness with my deliverance in hand.



Kurt Philip Behm

It was late April, or perhaps early May
At the Home for Blind Children
(This was all some time ago,
When one's infirmities were spelled out quite bluntly)
And the children, being set loose
In the resolute glow of the maybe-Spring-is-here sunshine,
Were playing baseball on a diamond-ish field
Wrestled from the goldenrod and crownvetch
Through eminent domain.
Oh, the ball was large, and beeped away like Sputnik,
But it was clearly the game of Cobb and Ruth and Mantle
Just the same, the proceedings ambling on as per usual,
The kids at the plate fixing on the wobbly, blaring orb
Just in time to nick it with their bats
And, with proper and judicious direction,
Traipse around the bases in accordance with the law
As laid down by Abner Doubleday himself.
One of the children, however, inexplicably locked onto the ball
From the moment it left the pitcher's hand,
Driving it in a high arc past the fielders
And over the chain-link boundary
Which had been put up for the Little League teams
A couple of years ago.
Strangely enough, both sighted spotters
Had picked that exact moment to be miles away
From the action taking place on the field,
Perhaps distracted by an unusual bird song,
Possibly formulating plans for their day off,
Maybe even contemplating love yet to be
(It was Spring, after all)
And thus never saw the flight of the ball
As it took flight toward its unlikely landing place.
They spent the remainder of the afternoon,
The sightless and those with varying degrees of vision,
In a fruitless search in the high grass at the edge of the field
And just outside of the foul lines,
Never imagining to look outside of the fence,
As all the while a small herd of cows in an adjacent field
Stared at them impassively,
Occasionally pausing to nibble on the patchy grass and clover
In the exact spots they had grazed the day before