Tag: Charles Ghigna

“The Call,” by Charles Ghigna

July 25, 2016

The author, Charles Ghigna, was kind enough to send this piece my way a while back.  It’s one of those ‘what if’ types of pieces that we can all relate to on some level.  I’m impressed that he managed to garner an invitation to spring training to try out; it’s a shame it didn’t work out for him.

*
Like many kids of the 1950s, I loved baseball.
I played on teams throughout my youth and in 1964
I received an invitation to spring training camp
for a tryout with the Pittsburgh Pirates.
I’m still waiting to hear from them.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a few poems…

I may have lost a step or two,
(Or four, or six, or eight).
My bat speed may have slowed a bit,
(Much like a rusty gate).

My fastball may have lost some pop,
My slider may have slid,
But when I dream of baseball,
I become a kid.

A glint of steel in my young stare,
Swagger in my stride,
I saunter to the plate
With confidence and pride.

A fastball down the middle,
I swing with all my might,
Old Rawlings soars past the crowd
And deep into the night.

There I am in summer’s glow
Warmed by hometown cheers,
Rounding third and striding home,
Back to my boyhood years.

Suddenly I’m sixty-nine
Asleep in winter’s sun,
Dreaming of what might have been
When I was twenty-one.

Still I wait to take the call,
To hear them say my name,
An old man dreaming of the day
He played a young man’s game.

“Baseball Dreams,” by Charles Ghigna

May 5, 2014

Charles Ghigna wrote this piece in memory of Jack Marsh, who played baseball as a second baseman for Yale University in 1943.  We rarely consider the analogous nature of baseball to war, but this poem shows us that the relationship most certainly exists.  All sports can teach us lessons about so many facets of our world and society, including war and peace.  Unfortunately, war tends to disrupt so many things in life, not just baseball.

I love the metaphors gushing out of this poem: from the uniform to the throwing of grenades, and, of course, the struggle to reach home safely.  Assuming that he did, indeed, survive, I wonder if Jack Marsh returned to baseball following the war?

*

Before the bayonet replaced the bat,
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;
his spikes anchored into the August clay,
his eyes set deep against the setting sun.

The scouts all knew his numbers well,
had studied his sure hands that flew
like hungry gulls above the grass;
but Uncle Sam had scouted too,

had chosen first the team to play
the season’s final game of ’44,
had issued him another uniform
to wear into the face of winter moon

that shone upon a snowy plain
where players played a deadly game,
where strikes were thrown with each grenade
and high pitched echoes linger still,

beyond the burned out foreign fields
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,
young Jack Marsh is rounding third,
and sliding, sliding safely home.