By David Mahler, Puget Sound MSBL
The Newark Eagles Baseball Club of ’01 looked nifty,
Though seniorest of teams in Puget Sound.
But
looks can be deceiving when your average age tops fifty--
Those
old aches and pains just follow you around.
The Eagles’ skipper, Mahler, overtaken now by age,
Decrepit both in body and in reason,
Just
hoped he had some healthy horses strong enough to wage
A campaign that would yield a winning season.
He cornered Eagle teammate Doctor Kunkler one occasion,
And, arm around his shoulder, he said, “Doc,
It
isn't just the normal cuts or bumps or mild abrasions
That this team is fighting. No, it's nature's clock.”
“The boys are aging quickly, and at every Eagle game
Complaints of suffering put me on alert.
And all the players' alibis for ailments sound the same:
’I just woke up this morning and it hurt!’”
Doc Kunkler closed his eyes a moment, no doubt deep in
thought,
But minutes passed till Mahler’s voice broke through:
“Doc,
were you napping?” No, just thinking back, reflecting
On my last base hit. June, '92.”
Collecting himself, back on track, the head Bald Eagle said,
“Doc, you and I are gonna pay attention
To
this fragile band of players, to pick out the healthy men,
The ones to keep us right there in contention.”
“We'll keep close watch this season of who's got what
aggravation,
And make report on what it is we're seeing.”
Well, here is what they found out, in poetic abbreviation,
The condition of each Eagle man's well being:
One fellow, Combs, a catcher, couldn't straighten up his back
From fifty years of squatting like an S.
His spine curved like a bow, his knees were locked like tire
jacks,
Wet pasta for a posture--what a mess.
Greenblatt’s the fastest man alive, though he can't run just
yet,
From hamstring twinge, it seems he can't rebound.
On
infield defense though, he's best--at least he will be soon.
(If you spot his arm somewhere call Lost and Found.)
Rodkinson at shortstop just shrugged off his few
afflictions:
“My Achilles only hurts me when I run.
And
since laser eye surgery, my only real restrictions
Are playing under lights or in the sun.”
Speaking of vision, in the outfield Hyden played by sound:
“Just yell out when the ball's within my reach!”
As for the rookie pitcher, Scoles--his sight went screwy on
the mound:
Home plate sat out there somewhere near Long Beach.
Roberts had a broken cage--batting cage, that is.
Except for that, he seemed in playing trim.
Unless
you count the fact that from the middle innings on,
Like concrete, his poor arm froze up on him.
So he devised the over fifties infield warm-up drill,
With which his teammate Keeney did agree.
(Keeney,
when young, in bunting drills, was coached to “shorten up,”
Advice that Keeney still takes, literally.)
A speedster by the name of Rex, much younger than his mates,
Thoughtfully, out of good will toward his elders,
Joined in with the wounded, tearing both hamstrings--awful
fate.
Doc Kunkler said, “I know! We'll call the welders
To repair those legs of steel that steal such bases in
profusion!
But in the meantime ice will stem the swelling.”
Then to Hogan, Doc cried out, “Don't just stand there in
confusion!
Lend me a hand, and listen while I'm telling
You to get some ice, run get some ice!
Don't stand there like you're sunning
At some poolside spa. Run! Get some ice real fast!”
But Hogan, panting 1ike a pooch, said “Doctor, I am running!
There's just nothing left slow enough for me to pass!”
To
which the Doctor said, “I'll diagnose you, name the cause
Of your inability to move your feet, sir.
The diagnosis is quite plain, and I'll give it to you
straight,
You've got Harley's Rigor Mortis of the Keister.”
Then Fish fell down on rollerblades, and Penski wrenched his
back.
Shibata's arm was toast from too much fishing.
Fitzgerald's
knee was bone on bone, there even was one game
When he walked a man! Which set the skipper wishing
For just one good man, one body sharp with stamina and
grace,
Someone with the strength of Charles Atlas.
A
player who could throw the ball with ease to any base,
Who.could outrun any fly, with flair, while hatless.
Waites circles under flyballs like a dog before it sits,
Sometimes the sight’s enough to make you dizzy.
And when he leaves the batters box to beat out a base hit
He sputters like he swallowed something fizzy.
This Waites is quite a character, an actor by profession,
Once just before show time, a fellow actor said,
“Hey,
break a leg!” Waites said, “I will!” But then in quick succession,
He went and broke an arm two times instead.
Then Mahler's search for someone healthy zeroed in on Cole:
No obvious physical abnormalities.
But...he
had this mental problem that occurred while running bases,
Doc termed it Chicken Slash Head Cut Off Disease.
Now Skipper Mahler, with a frown, to Doctor Kunkler asked
“Is there no one on this team who's fit?”
The
doctor brightened, raised a finger, “Anderson!” he cried.
“The only problem is that he just quit.”
“But Doc, I'm really desperate for bodies fit and sound.
What next?” said Mahler to the old M.D.
“Is there some buddy pick who you'd suggest we bring around?
Some logical addition to our fraternity?”
Doc Kunkler scanned the ballfield with a deadpan, somber tone,
Surveyed the squad with eyes of trained physician.
He saw the bodies bent in pain, he heard the rattling bones,
Then his voice of wisdom said, “Know any morticians?”
Some season, when the grass turns green, you'll shake off
winter's gloom.
Bright sun will flood your hallowed field of dreams.
When umpires voices rise to cry “play ball!” and diamonds
loom
Like Eden's garden, Paradise, it seems.
Eagles, refreshed from Winter's rest, will shuffle from
their lairs,
Patched up with surgeries, rehab and grit,
Will don their sweat stained uniforms, stumble up the dugout
stairs
With dignity, they'll throw, and run, and hit.
But know that life is different for these aging baseball
stars:
That bulging in their cheeks is not from chaw.
When seniors, the true seniors take their positions
on the field,
There's half a pound of prunes stuck in their jaw.
So shake hands with Ibuprofen, Tiger Balm, and pails of ice!
Hello, knee brace! Cortisone for all! .
Stretch until you're rubber. (Oh, your orthopedic cleats
look nice!)
You're an old man, but at least you're playing ball.
David Mahler
December 2001