by Marianne Moore

    （Suggested by post-game broadcasts）

    Fanaticism¹？  No.  Writing is exciting

    and baseball is like writing.

    You can never tell with either

    how it will go

    or what you will do；

    generating excitement——

    a fever in the victim——

    pitcher²， catcher， fielder， batter³.

    Victim in what category？

    Owlman watching from the press box？

    To whom does it apply？

    Who is excited？  Might it be I？

    It's a pitcher's battle all the way——a duel——

    a catcher's， as， with cruel

    puma⁴ paw， Elston Howard lumbers⁵ lightly

    back to plate.  （His spring

    de-winged a bat swing.）

    They have that killer⁶ instinct；

    yet Elston——whose catching⁷

    arm has hurt them all with the bat——

    when questioned， says， unenviously，

    "I'm very satisfied.  We won."

    Shorn of the batting crown， says， "We"；

    robbed by a technicality.

    When three players on a side play three positions

    and modify conditions，

    the massive run need not be everything.

    "Going， going . . . "  Is

    it？  Roger Maris

    has it， running fast.  You will

    never see a finer catch.  Well . . .

    "Mickey， leaping like the devil"——why

    gild⁸ it， although deer sounds better——

    snares⁹ what was speeding towards its treetop nest，

    one-handing the souvenir-to-be

    meant to be caught by you or me.

    Assign Yogi Berra to Cape¹⁰ Canaveral；

    he could handle any missile.

    He is no feather.  "Strike！ . . . Strike two！"

    Fouled¹¹ back.  A blur¹².

    It's gone.  You would infer

    that the bat had eyes.

    He put the wood to that one.

    Praised， Skowron says， "Thanks， Mel.

    I think I helped a little bit."

    All business， each， and modesty¹³.

    Blanchard， Richardson， Kubek， Boyer.

    In that galaxy¹⁴ of nine， say which

    won the pennant¹⁵？  Each.  It was he.

    Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws

    by Boyer， finesses¹⁶ in twos——

    like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-

    diagnosis¹⁷

    with pick-off psychosis.

    Pitching is a large subject.

    Your arm， too true at first， can learn to

    catch your corners——even trouble

    Mickey Mantle¹⁸.  （"Grazed a Yankee！

    My baby pitcher， Montejo！"

    With some pedagogy，

    you'll be tough， premature¹⁹ prodigy²⁰.）

    They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying

    indeed！  The secret implying：

    "I can stand here， bat held steady."

    One may suit him；

    none has hit him.

    Imponderables smite²¹ him.

    Muscle kinks， infections， spike²² wounds

    require food， rest， respite²³ from ruffians.  （Drat it！

    Celebrity²⁴ costs privacy！）

    Cow's milk， "tiger's milk，" soy milk， carrot juice，

    brewer's yeast²⁵ （high-potency——

    concentrates presage²⁶ victory

    sped by Luis Arroyo²⁷， Hector Lopez——

    deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes，

    it's work； I want you to bear down，

    but enjoy it

    while you're doing it."

    Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain，

    if you have a rummage²⁸ sale，

    don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.

    Studded with stars in belt and crown，

    the Stadium is an adastrium.

    O flashing Orion，

    your stars are muscled like the lion.

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