It’s the height of summer — nearly August — and the Jays are still legitimately in the pennant race. That, in itself, is a kind of poetry.

But I digress. Remember that time a writer I know posted a Facebook status that included reference to an old ESPN column / article by Buster Olney on diving catches in baseball and then I tried to incorporate it into a poem? It was now.

So: here’s a new baseball-ish poem, in early-ish draft form. Enjoy. (And thanks for the online inspiration, Christen Thomas.)





Most outfielders dive for catches as if they’re falling headfirst off the hood of a car,

their bodies dropping at a high angle, both hands extended in front of them.


– Buster Olney, ESPN



you know: although the pros – your

anthony gose, your andruw jones – execute as though

the field’s a car poorly parked at the lazy, pristine

edge of some summer’s swimming hole, their arcs

a naïve physics simply spit-balling the complex

metrics of a shoulder’s socket wrenched or a rib’s

transubstantiation into a kind of heartfelt stake – or

something just as hard to swallow, something just as

sacrosanct – there is more than one way to skin a cat

(a knee, a shin, a ball); more than one way to catch

yourself, mid-fall. there is, in fact, a grace you’ll note

only when you’re flung all akimbo all at once away and

into the mooning embrace of gravity.

this is, as they say, akin to – no – exactly

what it means to be on a cloud of nine. trust me: mid-

arc – however briefly – you will find yourself at peace.

a piece of leather; catapulted and exulted: a raw, once

hidden, language now exposed. yes: you, yourself,

a kind of soon-to-be-flowery prose. a figure of speech;

both a breach and a pause. the park’s rustling leaves

a sudden applause.          and landing? a slap; a tickle.

a new understanding of just how fickle a breeze can be.

how what we see isn’t always what we get. how

certain things, despite our dogged drive, remain

beyond our reach. how the sun gets in our eyes. how,

despite our myriad protests and gesticulations, there’s

always the ground’s finality. it never lies.



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