Journal

Bruce King's Things

The home of all things about Bruce King

Hyalite Reservoir

The Upper Plains Horsehide Journal
The rich history of Baseball and poetry about it preserved for all.

The Bozeman Baseball Poetry Club

For Paul, we'll do our best

Several years ago, well I guess it's 10 or more at this point. Nobody seems to be able to remember exactly when it all Started, but what evolved into an annual event, the thing that was the brainchild of Paul Shreve, was born. Simply called Baseball Poetry, the readings began and quickly developed a loyal fan base. In those early days there was also a "Best Socks" contest where the winners and runners up all got a signed baseball from one of the evenings poets. This got a little crazy and some of the socks were weird, outlandish and in one case almost pornographic! People got creative and we all had a lot of fun being silly, reading baseball poems and drinking beer. In fact once we discovered the Haufbrau would give those who read poetry a couple free beers we decided to make it a regular happening. We've since dropped the socks contest and usually have one or two singers doing a few baseball songs. One time we had a Cubs fan dishing up "Chicago Dogs". We've also had Hall of Fame pitcher Jean Cione from the Rockford Peaches, Peoria Red Wings and Kenosha Comets of the "All-American Girls Professional Baseball League". Think "League of their own". Over the years we've had about a dozen or more contributor and of those about a half have become regulars. Besides Paul Shreve and myself we've had Rande Mack, Stormin Norman Marshall, Will Gardner, Paul Groueff, Tony Rogers, Colter Langan, Kenny Abbott, Edis and a few others I've forgotten or who appeared impromptu and anonymously.

Books by Paul Shreve

The Want Ad Stories
When Sagebrush is Parsley, Barbwire Is Dental Floss
The Horrible Beauty Of It All
Dust Devils

Table of Contents

The Horrible Beauty Of It All

For Wayne
as he got it coming

In all the world there is nothing
so pretty as junk hurled across a plate
arriving screwy and scary and a coarse hair late
and ugly like a three legged dog with a nasty earache
twisting like a dyspeptic heart-burnt poison-striped snake
not 'specially fast but schizoid psychotical
all full of rock and roll dreams
voiced in operatical cross-dressed screams
jitterbugging like as if epileptic
a line not so fine never drawn before
or after from the crooked fingers
of a criminally manic flinger
kind of guy whose head is a trailer park
crowded with barking dogs
even at high high noon dark
lawn filled with snarling car wrecks
and skewed dreams of dirty lipstick sex
wild snorty somewhere wrong midday Sunday say
spit sneaky on and screwy screwy
how do we love the pitch
and pity the poor sonofabitch catcher
sweet Jesus it's surely coming atcher
nuts

rocky mountain oysters popping in a hot skillet
hopping scotch pushing demented demonic smoke
I tell you true it ain't no joke
it takes a man with an agile ham of a hand
desperate reflexes of the damned
to capture and throw away
the psychotic rapture of 85 miles an hour
not-so-sweet fleet deceit
maliciously flung tongue-hidden pills
embodying mystifying virulent ills
in person the very cursed picture of
WHAT?

ruint bicycles sour divorces busted arms
prison-sentence river-bottom drought-year pot-farms
missed top steps down jarring flights
rigged fights broken hearts excessively shitty babies
hammer-hit thumbs throbbing dogs crazy with rabies
hillbilly missing-tooth lap dances
cross-eyed blown-bad chances
two dozen scorpions in a jelly jar

rolling off a formica table in a earthquake and such
these filthy whelps-of-Satan pitches are
junk

it's a unholy mess yes

yet none-the-goddamn-less
no uglier nor prettier was there over a sight
than that bump-grind no-grace thump-rhumba
of junk caught right

Paul Shreve

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A SAD STATE OF AFFAIRS

when he read it in his bathrobe Sunday morning
the sports page fell from his hands and hit the floor
like a bird with a heart attack
no more beer to be sold at Coors Field
except to the philistines up in the Skybox temples
he picked up his bat the Ararat Slugger
and his smooth oiled Glove of Love
with a mind to busting up those moneychanger tables
and get in a little leather bitch-slapping too
on their costly coifs
$60 for a ticket 10 bucks for a damn dog not even kosher
what next only sugarless gum at Wrigley
but then he remembered what kind of justice he could expect
in the bought and sold courts worse even than an ump
with money on the game
so he turned his sandals south and walked to the D R
where baseball still is baseball shortcutting across the open briney
tricky footing on the choppy sea in a bathrobe training for a jib sail
even for the Lamb of God and Goat of Madmen
just in time for an afternoon game and for a moment
enjoyed some peace a perro caliente cacachuetes cervesa cigarro Cubana
while in the back of his mind he knew
it wasn't over til it was over
and he was a mean closer his own self
with stuff so holy it was unholy the world hadn't even seen
yet
He wouldn't be needing a closer no
designated hitters and tv evangelists would go out the window
tomatoes would taste like tomatoes again
crackerjack would be crackerjack
the cheap seats would be cheap seats
tickets would be one man's working hour wage
not a single player except for catchers
would have their own fashion line
all the cologne and jewelry would be thrashed
out of the temple with holy billingsgate
no more foam fingers or tomahawk chops
assaulting Pee Wee coaches would call for stoning
all umps would wear glasses
the ping of aluminum bats would never be heard again anywhere
and baseball would be somewhat right again
thank you Jesus

by Paul Shreve

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My early memories of Fenway Park include the following, while still a Cub Scout

Teddy Ballgame # 521

One late September day long, long ago

A nine year old cub scout was dragged from his den

With Dad, an uncle and cousins

To that famous marsh known as "the Fens"

It was the first of what would be many

Pilgrimages to that Pahk

The lush grass was green

And the Monster looked oh so mean

Number 9 was there, "The Kid" they once said

But he was older, wiser and his bat was not dead

Innings came and innings went

And the sox were down but not yet out…..of the ninth

After three at bats and nothing to show

Splinter, not splendid. 2 down, 3-2 count

Then lightning struck, and thunder roared

As the ball made it's way to the bleacher seats

And a nine year old went home that day

With cherished memories of that

The last home run and last at bat

By the Kid,

the Splendid Splinter,

Teddy Ballgame

by Bruce King, October 2001

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Bleacher Bums

There are memories sweet and memories sour

The smell of pop-corn and peanuts,

Fenway franks and beer

Of wins and losses, home runs and strikeouts

Sunny summer days and soggy spring rainouts

Miraculous catches, incredulous errors

Ah, the memories, both sweet and sour

Linger on and on

Sitting in the bleachers

we were few, but proud

Mr. October in the outfield

we were screaming loud

As any self respecting bleacher bum would do

He reveled in the lack of respect we showed

We were reviled by his indifference to

The beer soaked obscenities we spewed

He turned to face us

brave soul that he was

Opened his glove

revealing his prize

Oh how I learned to hate that man

As he stood there smiling, bird in hand

The memories are sweet

And the memories are sour

Insults and pop-corn flew to the field

In our valiant attempts to make the enemy cower

Alas, but our feeble attempts were ignored

Thoughts of losing swept section 39

Once again the win would wait for yet another time

Frank Howard, another man with a bat

Couldn't solve the riddle of Beantown ball

strike 3 you're out! Rang 4 times that night

As the crowd chanted "poor Frank, you didn't have your wheaties"

But Yaz came through for the faithful that time

four doubles to show for 4 at bats

And the sweet memories linger on and on

as the sour ones chaffe our very soul

1912 brought a brand new park

ah, but the news was not front page

The Titanic sank and stole the show

Nobody cared about baseball that day

Opening day rainout, the next day too

Finally, christened with a win over the bums of the Bronx

Began the romance of Fenway, and duels with the Yanks

Errors and blunders and bonehead plays

Rest in the minds of the fans of the fens

From Bucky Dent to Buckner memories are sour

But from Ted then Yaz, Lynn and Rice

from Carlton, Luis, Nomar, Pedro

memories are sweet

Ah, the memories, both sweet and sour

Linger on, and on and on

Bruce King,

October, 2002

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"Tell it to the world.
Yankee Haikus are easy.
World Champion Team"

Will Gardner

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Professional Girls At The Bat

For Jean Cione

Back when dames was still dames
some of em could damn sure swing a bat big
and put a bent and a tilt to a bat
racing all the bases
the glory of those sunshine knees
and chasing tresses not flirting indolent nor awkward
no but trailing amazing graces
thigh swift and sure under that muscled high shot
we don't ever want to land shy
except in some kid's hand in the bleachers
catching love and out all at once
watching her trot the run likely made him a preacher
stunned religious by them flashing gams
and mile wide smile
here on out as what else could be so grand a slam
to a man's startin heart
good God fellas this is hardball
battered by tomatas
into the finest salsa of all
play ball play ball

by Paul Shreve

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Heads up Bottoms up

here’s to the catchers of balls in the bleachers
to the kids in the corners fondling foul stitches
to those black and blue from scrambling the fastest
and to those in the sudden path of a grass stained blast

here’s to the acrobats reaching with only their hats
to the hecklers tossed an inning’s last can of corn
to those prowling the zones around major league bounces
and to those high fiving nose bleed chums in the cheap seats

here’s to the out of towners in the upper decks behind home plate
to the cotton candy faces catching the eye of a ball girl
to those with the longest arms under a towering infield foul
and to those tattooed homers clutched in tingling pink fingers

here’s to the lucky grab just beyond the stretch of a fielder
to the habitual long riders of the jumbo tumble bleacher ball
to those possessing the scuffed leather they were bruised by
and to those throwing back anything from the top of an inning

here’s to the sunburned cousins of baseball’s oldest fans
to the ladies in left with the crack of a bat nested in their laps
to those mustard stained screamers with the sun in their eyes and
to those guys above first catching fouls in their cups filled with beer

Rande Mack

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"When it comes to pitching baseball verse in The Barroom Leagues this is always a wild card show not to be missed"

Contact Info: bruce@brucekings.com

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