Cardinals bullpen. Youth’s flowing fountain runs deep, Like hot, fresh cheese fries. Sports bar bathroom reeks, Yet within: community. Bros pee, united. Love thy neighbor, dawg. Boston: The Pixies. Sam Adams. St. Lou: Jon Hamm. Busch.
Poetry in Motion: Vince McMahon and W.H. Auden Solve the Government Shutdown
The first thing that I’m reminded of when watching the Congress in crisis is my lifelong love of professional wrestling’s broad theatrics. Telling someone that you love wrestling is akin to what I expect it’s like to announce a foot fetish. Most recoil and wince, the rest ask if you prefer the big toe or the pinkie.
Poetry in Motion: Your MLB Postseason Horoscope
It’s autumn in America, the recognized center of our universe. With the change in season comes the opportunity to stargaze in a sweater, contemplate one’s place in the galaxy, and chart which Major League Baseball team in playoff contention best suits your astrological sign. But why think when I can think for you?
Poetry in Motion: An Excerpt from Tim Tebow’s Epic Fantasy Novel, “Tebros: The Unrequired Dragon”
“We should start back,” said Tebros, pointing to a swift military formation scratched onto a scroll. The scrimmage yards told a grim tale: third and eight after an incomplete pass. His fellow Paytriotes shrugged and shuffled their feet across the Training Camp’s field of battle, like timid trolls scared to enter a line dance with vixens.
Poetry in Motion: A Steroid Diary
Sunday, February 17th I’m looking for Human Growth. Mackendrick says not to call it that. Call it “vitamins” he says. Don’t even write the word down, he says. “Are you writing my name?” he says. “Jesus Christ, stop writing down everything I’m saying.” Call it a birthday present from my Swiss cousin. Call it a live ferret. Anything but what it is, even though everyone uses them now. Nerds with allergies even. Ha ha ha.
Poetry in Motion: Goodreads, Fantasy Baseball, Robert Coover, and the Art of Loneliness
I joined a cult this week. Pretty fun. Well-organized. Addictive, sure, and the acolytes are rabid, but the devices are user-friendly, and I’m starting to make friends. If I prove myself, I may even climb the ranks toward a higher ranking and be given new privileges. We even have our own app. That’s right, infidel: there’s an app for us. And it may yet save your soul.
Poetry in Motion: Mr. Met’s T-Shirt Cannon, and the Literary Mascots of Tomorrow
On Saturday afternoon I watched the gaunt and jaunty Mr. Met trot out from right field to unleash an onslaught upon the ambivalent, half-filled stands of Citi Field. Those of us willing to watch the Mets fall to the Kansas City Royals in a 4-3 twelve inning war of attrition rose up and offered our richest enthusiasm of the day. Not to a swift diving catch or seam-splitting dinger. These vigorous roars of excitement went to a person (gender, race, […]
Poetry in Motion: Can You Learn to Run Faster by Reading Books?
In writing about the art of sport, and the potential poetics of these games, there is a temptation to chase secret mechanics in the language of memoirs, biographies, histories, and the like. I’m always looking for a captivating, well-written book that will offer insights not merely into the experiences of athletes – teamwork, practice, composure – but the hard data of the game. How to Throw a Curveball, How to Rebound, How to Render an Opponent Unconscious. This pursuit is […]