Empire Builder Issue 4
Content
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
Issue 4 // Baseball is Baseball
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the empire builds. bleachers packed, standing room only at the gathers momentum, shakes third from its heels and blows a locomotive steam of dreams on its way home. dust tornadoes plume in the wake of cleats and tattered knees. i4 is here blasting through catcher masks and chest pads. i4 feels connected to a bigger community. there is a roar of clanging bleachers in DC. howls at the rst proseball in the Detroit box seats. they ponder true-self visions working 2 - 3 counts in the Denver dug-outs. foggy San Francisco weeps and bellows a er y balls and backwards K’s. seasons cities ideas and love have rolled through us. we are re ned by memorized past lives paralleling current moments – whirling, blurring by in basepaths, hawking peanuts in the aisles, boogying in between second and third. i4 on baseball: the sport of romance, ideals, nostalgia, and bubble gum. baseball spans seasons and poetic sentiment. our pens are as hot as cy young’s fastball. thank you for reading. this issue is dedicated to the fans. the bleeding heart poets. but particularly everyone else who watches the games but has no idea who we are. signed , right eld fence. the spirit swells in grandstands of america. i4
THE BUILDERS
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
Infinite Summer // AWS A Connoisseur of Baseball // SAW Guest Contributor // GS Manny the Scalper // AWS sea.ttleorbaseb.all // CB An Impossible Catch // JRF The #3 Game I Ever Saw // AWS The Kings Cards // AWS The Game Was Lost, Illustration // PEM Peer Pressure Patriotism // SAW All Sorts of Things Could Happen // JRF Fitness // JRF Where Have All the Sports Poets Gone // CB Chet Bartels & Free Hot Dogs // CB
ISSUE FOUR
INFINITE / / / / / / / / / SUMMER
the big time at-bats. v. Back to the bench with him already, the locker room mentor for the youth. v. He was the only one in all of 'em hitting in May. e innings in-betweens. We lead o brewing beer. Racking beer precisely . Running the fermented beer from its fermenting bucket, to another bucket, so the beer clears. e yeasty sediment is le behind. In my old linoleum oor kitchen perpetually sullied by hardened dust of past nights' dreams, in a hot-haze light, we call signals to each other. OK you sterilize the bucket. Already done man. Nice one. en grab the hose. Got it. Is it sealed tight? Yeah. Ok let 'er rip. Nice, it smells so great. Dude it's not sealed tight. Man yeah it is OH shit what do I do what do I do? I got it. Nice save. We rack. We drink beer. We jaw on the stoop. e sun owers grow high in the front yard. e neighbors unhurriedly pass by. ey glance up from the sidewalk at two boys dressed in annel short-visor ball caps, sipping beers, philosophizing on the designated hitter. All the windows in the house are open. ere is the faro buzz of fans whirling upstairs on high. e sidewalk is covered with chalk poetry and sketches. e summer blows over. We mount bikes. In my pack the Cannon AE1, yellow-lined notepad, water and eyeglasses, a sharpened pencil. We ride for Coors Field up 25th-Washington-24th-Blake-one stop for the peanut guy. Because baseball demands ritual. e old grizzly, white as the Rocky Mountain peaks beard, gut like he eats the le overs daily, roasting 'em authentic and hot. ey beat every store-bought bag from King Scoops. His little youngy daughter pulls out a warm brown sack for us, an angel serving peanuts, and we are ready now, armed by pre-game ritual. We don't wait got the gates in our sights. We stick greedy claws in the bag, forgetting shells on the sidewalk, littering like we're already in the aisle, our eyes on the neon play-at-the plate. is is the rear gate to the park, the summertime sanctuary, the only sports stands open for summer. Where brighthot high-desert days become the reason we dig the twilight and warm embraces. e Sox and e Rocks alite here for interleague play. We sit in seats close to the eld watching the players play. We perch in the pavilion mid- rst, the Purple Peaks down one early, from the third row close enough to see Gonzo adjusting his crotch. Playing catch with Blackmon, the July call-up won't make it to August. Close enough to comprehend the swagger. With our backs turned to the jumbotron, no distracting short-attention-span-indulging mid-inning theatrics. Only catch hit run slide. For complementary entertainment we exercise debates of passion and history. Like for instance Helton's lost his heart, doesn't hustle down the line to the bag. v. Bull shit. He's an athletic conservationist. He's playing sustainably out there conserving power for In the Fourth, once the rhythm's established, the perfect game and no hitter grails lost for another night, and the rst time my buddy asks but not before, it's time to make the trip to the lines, the concessions looming over the grandstands. Because baseball tickets are repaid only one way. Two polish, two heavy. Waiting in line is the hardest part, and it's got to be this line too; the only unironic tap pouring Coors Banquet in Coors Field. But desperately longing for a return to those seats. As in how I missed back-to-back bombs by Gri ey Jr. and A-Rod at SafeCo in '99. at day I rode the bus with turquoise seats from the Tacoma Holiday Inn, my uncle and I standing for hot snacks, meanwhile one goes two goes, we only watching on small monitors over the vendor's visor. Now with draughts and dogs in my arms I'm on seat return, but rst take the sip from the top of both cups, the waiter's sip, the sip that is lost otherwise in aisles and crowd collisions, take the sip for walking room. And load those brats up with every color of high fructose corn syrup. Red and yellow and green. Over the Seventh the beer hums in our heads, the ballpark pints make their charm, rallied those two quickies on the porch earlier when the night was still hot. We stretch, a choir singing together. With arms draped over our shoulders we sway and sing and feel the notwired deep July rhythm. Plugged into evening character-building, concentrating on one solitary activity for nine innings. All six senses engage with the game. We ignore when they tell us to MAKE SOME NOISE. Flip em o when they ash GET LOUD. Feel baseball signi cance. Touch sacri ce. Hear hard working bats cracking. Taste sweet victory. e rst meeting of the Denver Society for the Preservation of Tangibility. Let the night turn. By the irteenth the fans wobble deadbeat, wait for the summer night hero. Most gone. Grounders, dribblers, foul-pops caught by the catch behind home plate. Nothing doing until they walk Tulowitzki. In steps the easy-out journeyman Ty Wiggington. e hackneyed traveler blips a pitch into shallow center. Tulowitzki o . Dogout hauls around third no look for the coach just digs up dust and slides for the cameras Safe. e Rocks win. e Great Rocky Mountain Empire bows in the distance. e Cowtown takes game one from the Mighty City of the Midwest, Lake Michigan's Guardian O cer. We walk out admiring our fellows who remained, some raw some wild some sleepy some child. We tip our hats and unlock our bicycles. We pedal in packs-of-one to our old homes of Denver, Cowtown City in the High Plains, at the edge of the Empire. Where homebrew kegs repose in basements and ardenthearted fans dream of September turnaround streaks. On lonesome rides we reminisce on the pitches, the pageantry, the humor, the endurance. We roll o into another In nite Summer night.
AWS
A Connoisseur of Baseball
Perhaps watching baseball is like yoga it centers you, let’s you escape your thoughts to consider something else. Else that is repetitious, movement a er movement the same every time, yet not boring, a yoga master can see the virtue of continuous cycles of similar plays that are always di erent. Today the players and crowd are not the same as the next day. Each time it is a new practice. When someone likes baseball they have patience, they are idealistic, value tradition or ceremony, can be swept away in a moment and let their mind wander. Admire simple physical motion that they have done themselves, yet appreciate some do it much better. Are able to sit alone in a room and read a book or think, be by themselves, they are loyal creatures who can understand a need of some for a routine.
SAW GS
on taking 131-25-2 despite the fact the seat to which I was assigned was 131-29-6: a sonnet of one hundred forty one
just sitting and looking like a pretty how do you do and a bleacher-seat bench and a smile and so prettyand i wanted (and i hope shewanted) just to talk and watch everyone look at how pretty she is and i thinking it would be ok to sit next to herand her saying so and for the rst time in my life actually doing it and stopping and introducing myself ‘Hi’ (in brevity) (in bravery) and telling her what a lovely little how do you do she makes and it’s impossible to con ne such joy in one hundred and forty sylla-bles.
I wish I owned a Googlemachine 1440ie bluepixel megatooth etc.++
Instead, I put my phone through the washer and dryer, so the screen melted o and I don’t know what’s happened to the Tigers since the Tampa Bay series. It is, however, extremely clean.
Manny The Scalper
Manny e Scalper works the corner 18th and Larimer. Carves a trail in concrete. Well souled, Always needs tickets. He hawked the bullseye seat for Bichette’s blast at y percent mark-up. He had four le in his pocket when Carroll won it in the 13th. He gives 'em away a er the sixth but Manny won’t tell you that. Who’s got extras I need tickets Who's sellin' Who's sellin' Hey Amigo Two just for you Don’t say no It’s Tulo and CarGo Don’t say no It’s the Rocky Mountain Power Show.
Q&A
Q:Is he friendly or shrewd? A: Shrewd. Q: Does he play favorites? A: He favors old men. Feels sorry for ‘em. Can’t help it. But only for a moment. en he’s tough as hell turns anybody away with nothing -no pricebecause you take the deal when Manny’s giving. Q: Why does he scalp? A: He scalps because he is a distributor. A broker of baseball. He facilitates the coming in, lls the stands, plays arbitrage on wins and losses, knows the lineup as well as Tracy. Q:What are his dreams? A: He doesn’t dream. He sleeps.
AWS
sea.ttleorbaseb.all
baseb.all is a past time,a tradition,it is on big screens,& n big ballparks.kids fawn a er ball players.adults compile stats w/ pencils & red pens.my friend jonathan tells me stats r important n baseb.all (he is an a cionado).baseb.all has become an institution.it provides strangers points of conversation on trains & buses.it allows bonds 2 b formed across isles & bleacher seats.it is a part of the american culture & scene.there is beauty there.there is beauty & energy @ the base.b.all diamond. once i found a ball eld amongst the trees streets & parks n seattle.i rode n on a bike w/ a camera & lm n my bag.i heard voices & cracks, rattles & laughter.i had happened upon a rag-tag game. some 10 odd kids were playing baseb.all n tight jeans,black & acid washed,t-shirts & a couple jerseys hang on their shoulders.baseb.alls r littered behind homeplate.there r only 2 out elders & no catcher. slouched along the fence,hipsters waited.cigarettes rolled smoke from their lips.pbr & the champagne of beers dripped from their tongues.talk along da bench & chatter in tha eld. <bat..ter>. y balls & hard grounders electri ed them.i sat & watched.it was chilly.i snapped 3 pictures. behind home.plate,through the fence,& from le - eld.i remembered my little league diamond.my backyard,thinning grass @ the pitchers place & a dust bowl 2 the le of a beat up piece of black rubber,nubbed where da Tstand used to jut skyward. baseb.all,it seems the same as n my childhood.the same sounds & movements.yells & rundowns.yet the hipsters have their own culture outside of baseb.all.n truth the hipsters have always felt disparate from all other niches of american culture and society.i guess i dont have 2 tell u.but on the eld swinging & throwing,it all seemed ok.ok 4 me 2 B a part of their niche.ok 4 me 2 sit & watch,associating through baseb.alls poetic medium,& smile,& feel a little bit closer than when they zip through red-lites n seattle on xed gear bikes w/ high & tight bags instead of pitches.2day i didnt hav-ta choose btwn base.ba.ll & C@tell. it is baseb.all a er all.a tradition.an institution.a past time.like twain.ansel adams.andy warhol.elvis.guthrie.abelincoln @ pioneers.visions.lovers.leavers.dreamers.builders.com. all quelled in2 1. impervious to swaggering trends and fads.it brings us together with something to talk
An IMPOSSIBLE CATCH
e Polo Grounds in Harlem hosts a World Series game Indians versus the Giants in the 8th inning frame September 29th in 1954 Runners on 1st and 2nd 2-2 is the score An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch I will elucidate a CATCH that I never got to see I study an account and it reveals itself to me Liddle’s on the mound and Wertz is at the plate Defenders in position, for Liddle’s next pitch they wait An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch Liddle makes his pitch, a disappearing streak of light Wertz swings the bat, a blur too fast for sight A re-like explosion, a violent sounding CRACK Willie Mays is in center eld, in motion towards the track An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch e ball is like a comet, it is burning in the air Seems beyond the range of what Willie Mays can snare He’s running at full speed, like a sprinter in a race e ball keeps on carrying but Mays is keeping pace An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch Legs and arms frenetic, he is completely turned around Glove near his le shoulder, his back is to the mound What happened next it’s hard to tell it all went by so fast ankfully immortalized are moments from the past An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch
CB
JRF
THE #3 GAME I EVER SAW
is is the #3 best game I ever saw.
I wake early. Nine year old feet touch the red rag carpet. e Niagara Escarpment runs from here to the Lutheran Church of Escarpment. Over on Upper Mountain Road built last week with the hand of my father. It is light in the near-solstice June 16 morning. e window is cracked. e ceiling fan whirs. A breeze blows and li s the curtains. I pull my glove from underneath the pillow. I pop hard few cracks in the mitt. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. I wear the shirt not with the American NY, but with the classy New York top hat hung to an angle of authority and distinguish over the bat of Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio. Down the hall's a wa emaker ringing in the kitchen. Eggs and sausage links gurgle on the stove. e cold turquoise tile oor. A deep morning voice behind a newspaper at the kitchen table. Eat up boy there’ll be a drive today. It’ll be long and pretty. Fill up. In the eve of my 10th birthday, my parents and I made a trip to Cleveland. We back out from the garage. Mom rides serene in the front seat. We drive down the escarpment to the river, still ice cold blue, roiling to its plunge. e summer trees, and the nimblewill on the banks green for just this moment. Now. We follow the river back against its course through Lackawanna and Blasdell and Big Tree. Towawanda, Kenmore, Sloan. en on Interstate 90 west, 180 miles alongside Lake Erie, the old industrial grizzly of the Great Lakes. e windows open the whole time, letting the morning in on the longest stretch of lined American concrete. Dreaming of the boys who also made the drive, Roger and Mickey and Yogi and Whitey. We stop not for gas or food or bathrooms. en Cuyahoga County, Dead Man’s Curve, downtown in the Forest City of Prosperity and Progress. Cleveland Stadium. e Lakefront Stadium. e Big Ballpark. Where fans come in the eighty thousands to watch a game of patience and calculus. e park of the AL Central Cleveland Indians since 1932. ey broke ground in the middle of the Great Depression, when people built things to beat their fears. When they took action instead of standing still talking. A park where no one’s hit one out in deep center. Bill Veeck moves the fence in and out, depending on the day, the weather. ( ey tear it down in ’93. ey forget then how to x things.)
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Below is an account of the game.
In the late morning I see the midges and may ys swirling on the mound, groundskeepers bat them away, chalk dirt, geometrize the mound, rake sand. Mother leads me for a hot dog, coke, bag of nuts. e ballgame entree for a nickel and three pennies. e park half full, the empty church, hollow echoes of the sharp cracks of the Indians taking batting practice. Rollie Sheldon and Jim Perry warming in the bullpens. Perry breathes easy for Mickey’s name does not grace the line-up on this a ernoon. Top of the rst Perry walks Maris but strikes out Blanchard where Mickey should’ve stepped in to bring him in. e Cleveland Indians hit Rollie hard. Double single single single. Four for four has Sheldon Stunned in the bottom of the rst. ey add more in the second. We sit quietly in our pews. But then the Yanks take back two in the fourth. Pop looks over and says ere’s some runs for you Stevie. And Blanchard bombs one to the fans in the h. So it’s 7-4 in the 7th. With only nine outs le in the game, the Cleveland Indians call in reinforcement arms, Bob Allen in for Perry. He wilts in the Yankees’ momentum, straightaway doubled by Lopez, walks Tresh, brings up Roger Maris. Swing crack clap. e Yankees are back. ree run distance for Roger Maris. en in the 8th with one runner on, Mickey Mantle steps in. e Mick. Saved for this moment. Fate at the plate. Bob Allen there to serve him. And he sends Bob’s pitch back the other way hard and high and Ruthian. Note how the Yankees stormed back to take the lead in the top of the 8th on a Mantle pinch hit 3 run homer. He had just come back from the disabled list. We stand and roar on the Midwest planes lled with sit-down Indians. e mighty Yankees of Niagara Falls New York come back from 6-0, put their names on top of the scorecard 9-7. I dance in the aisle. I crush peanut shells and raise nine year arms in victory. My dad rests his on my mother’s shoulder. ey smile. e Yankees lose 9-8. Give it up like this: one back in the 8th, then walk-o two run circuit clout to Coates in the ninth. e Indians fans re-joyed. Me and my parents walk out with our heads up. We move back to the point where the river overtakes the cuesta, telling tales of Maris and Mantle and Blanchard. Like the escarpment, carved out of me over nine innings on this day is a new wisdom that will not be eeting. e understanding of baseball. e understanding of America. It was worth the trip even though Cleveland won in a walk o . is is the #3 game I ever saw.
AWS
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The Kings Cards
e King’s Cards behind a rusting Valparaiso Indiana McDonalds. Egg sandwich wrappers, grease pits, stains, a crumbling curb mark the parking lot. Heavy hot air. Middle July intensity dispenses roar on the senses, embroils tra c, cotton, and perspiration. e humidity haze enfogs the trudge to the door. e sun overwhelms unsunglassed eyes. Sunshiny light re ects o the churling white paint and the silver door handle. Travel hastily inside. e bell rings. e air’s dense and cold. ere’s mildew funk and the cheese of rotting boxes. Baseball cards unsold decay enclosed in glass. Grab bags mothball to worthless. e carpet matches the walls matches the wood. Ordure brown. e old whiteboard ceiling, corners absent, panel lights covered in vaseline. e white index boxes everywhere are the papermuseums to childhood dreams. Triple-A lifers led in dark rows, smiling boys on picture day wearing borrowed numbers, high school statistics the only history they exist. e only hint of why they’re smiling at you. Liquid collateral sitting on shelves demanding market prices. People printed on paper. He stands in place. Wearing the same cap, navy too-loose trousers, a white t-shirt crusting in the pits, the crust matches the carpet and the wood walls. His face shadowed by the odd and choppy lengthened stubble of a man who hasn’t shaven in a very long time. Hasn’t needed to. Customers keep their eyes on the cards. His sheltered by oversized wire glasses. He keeps a posture at the glass card case cognizantly one foot back, allows for his oating gut. Customers avoid the look-back scowl that silences questions and optimistic bids for bargains. e boxes stir with his cluttered breath. It smells like a loser’s dugout. Infrequently but enough to notice, Old saggy Carl pulls the hanky from a back pocket and wipes the glass with spittle. He polishes to a sheen the security case enclosing paper vainglory. He knows the current becket, the unrealized gains and losses, and which way they're trending. Not once changes prices. He permeates the shop from his two grounded feet behind the glass sinking in onetime-grey black wa e shoes. His subtle nod is the only acknowledgement nonpaper people are present. Survey the Kings’ cards. Shop e ciently impulsively. Peruse cautiously, touch little. e smell and the Saggy’s bearing down on you demand decisions. Quick. Break down the ver Papa slipped in-hand on the way out on the way here. Measure value in history and change. A John Wettland and Bernie Williams two for one. e Frank omas Big Hurt MVP edition, quoted for a premium secured behind independent hard-plastic. Kenny Lo on stealing second, dainty Mark McGwire in Oakland, Joe Carter roundtrotting third with the triumph hand. Old Saggy watches over, Oma waits by. No words spoken. Nod for the Big Hurt and a pack of Topps with the bubblegum stalehard inside. Don’t touch the glass when yielding the ver. He meters change in-hand and passes directly. Oma takes the other and leads to the car. Back to the Valparaiso lunacy. With summer treats captured from the King.
AWS
Peer Pressure Patriotism
ere has been a recent change in pressure for patriotism not only the National Anthem, which some might not want to sing to, but America the Beautiful sung at the 7th inning stretch? You are expected to stand for that? People are automated when it comes to the National Anthem, many sing, some don’t. Many more don’t know the actual words, but pretend to sing nonetheless. is demand is focused on sporting events, in particular, America’s pastime. Continually adding more songs and fervor coercing attendees to stand
at the whim of the singer on the microphone who generally has no connection to what it means to each person to a member of this particular country. e extra idolatry slipped in a couple years ago, but no one seemed to talk about it, so it’s now standard, more standing, singing or pretending to, more ags, less correlation to an individual’s thought.
PEM
SAW
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ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
WITH PITTSBURGH IN 1ST PLACE – THE NATION WAS IN SHOCK I SAW IT IN THE BOXSCORE AND I COULD HARDLY TALK I BOUGHT A PIRATES JERSEY AND THINGS WERE LOOKING GREAT I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT MAYBE TIGER WOODS WILL RECOVER FROM HIS WOES HE’LL KEEP IT UNDER RAPS AND FOCUS ON HIS FOES NO MORE ESCAPADES HE’LL TAKE UP PUZZLES, JACKS AND CHESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS CAN HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS I CALLED UP ALL MY FRIENDS AND SAID PITTSBURGH’S BACK! WALKER AND McCUTCHEN ARE LEADING THE ATTACK! THOUGH I DO NOT KNOW HALF THE GUYS WHO WALK UP TO THE PLATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT IMAGINE TERRELL OWENS NOT UTTERING A PEEP OR BRETT FAVRE SPECULATION FINALLY PUT TO SLEEP MAYBE ROGER CLEMENS WOULD MAN UP AND CONFESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS A HANRAHAN POSTER IS PASTED ON MY WALL I CHERISH MY CORREIA SOUVENIR SIGNED BALL I’LL PAWN MY DOG FOR TICKETS AT AN INFLATED INTEREST RATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT THE MOTHERSHIP MIGHT SPARE US OF THE YANKEES AND THE SOX MAYBE TIM McCARVER WILL BE SHOWN THE DOOR BY FOX THE COACHING GURU, BELICHICK, MIGHT LEARN HOW TO DRESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
I QUIT MY STABLE JOB SO I COULD WATCH GAMES ON TV I THREW AWAY MY CROSS – NOW I WEAR THE LETTER P I AM SO CONSUMED; MY MORTGAGE PAYMENT’S LATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT LEBRON HOLDS A PRESSER AND REQUESTS AN URGENT TRADE HE SAYS, SEND ME BACK TO CLEVELAND – I’M TIRED OF DWAYNE WADE MIAMI’S WHITE SAND BEACHES ARE CAUSING HIM DISTRESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
FITNESS
MY STOMACH TURNS WHEN I EAT A BIG MAC I GET A FREE SIDE OF HEARTBURN WITH MY JUMBO JACK TACO BELL NACHOS PRODUCE NOXIOUS GAS AND KFC LEADS TO THE OL’ TRIPLE BYPASS WORLD CLASS ATHLETES ARE LIKE FINE TUNED MACHINES THEIR BODIES ARE TEMPLES OF PROTEIN AND GREENS CHISELED, SCULPTED AND TOUGHER THAN STEEL WE POKE AT THEIR BICEPS TO SEE IF THEY’RE REAL THERE’S A WIDENING GAP BETWEEN ATHLETES AND FANS THEY’RE LIKE GODS COMPARED TO US SLOBS IN THE STANDS IN ANCIENT GREECE YOU WERE FORCED TO BE FIT NOW, WHEN I RISE FROM THE COUCH I SIGH, MAN, I QUIT BILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN HEALTHCARE AND PILLS DIET AND FITNESS THWARTS SICKNESS AND ILLS FOR THE SAKE OF THE BUDGET IT WOULD BE WISE THAT A LAW REQUIRES THAT WE EXERCISE HUNTING FOR FOOD IS A THING OF THE PAST NO NEED FOR FITNESS WITH SURPLUS AMASSED WE STILL VALUE VIGOR; ON FIELDS, DIAMONDS AND COURTS WE’D BE LIKE BOBA FETT IF IT WASN’T FOR SPORTS MONTANA, JORDAN, DIMMAGIO, THEY’RE LIFTING WEIGHTS; I’M LAYING LOW A TWO-A-DAY ROUTINE FOR BROADWAY JOE MAYS RUNS SPRINTS AND I CAN’T TOUCH MY TOES
JRF
JRF
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chet bartels and free hotdogs
the city cut back some corn and grass elds to make more parking so the ford and chevy longbeds could idle for games and give teenagers room to menace. indiana cornrows and baseball elds bathed in summer make the sun last like the mississippi is long and freckles dense. neighborhood kids pedaled porch to porch calling for a baseball game, in bright-light-mosquito-swarms with pink bubble gum by the bakers dozen, while dinner got cold on stove tops.
where have all the sports poets gone...
the poets stand rst at ball games. when mouths move in silence and whispers, poets stand. their skin next to cotton and weather. dust explodes out of their mouth exclamations made with periods pop like a catchers mitt. ngers stretch and crumple to sts - waves of excited wain vetted poets - their pens no more useful. players jog to dugouts and echoing concrete win and loss glow in the fans eyes; poets stand still and say “beautiful.” grass bends nally underfoot, the umpire collects the dust scraped game balls he wipes the leather, deciding(ly) – he collects the poetry for his resume or tosses it to the last kid standing which must be where all that sports poetry goes.
the ball diamonds were as close as a kiss to the chlorinated public pool where whistles and boyhood dreams of red-spandex-strapped-lifeguards gallivanted in the noonday heat until the ballpark- ood-lights over owed the concrete patio and stainless steel walls. i wasnt an all star. i knew id never play in the major leagues. i played center and second but watched plenty with two feet in tall grass, ngers threaded through a chain-link fence. in the mornings i always paid catatonic attention to box scores recited by my dad in his blue uniform and three shade darker dickies - with a rhythmic lap that put shakespeare to shame. the smell of nylon mesh tops and pickled polyester pinstripes made kids swing harder and throw farther. rag tagged. every night. i slipped chet lemon, cecil elder, ryan sandberg, ozzie smith, and travis fryman preciously into tight and clear hardened plastic. i polished those midwest stars october portraits spit polish shiny and showed them to my brother. and we talked ball and stared at BECKETT lines until we went blind till the morning light. in indiana the moms and sisters not playing so ball at denny feagler memorial eld served popcorn and pepsi at the concession stands. if you were dusty and grass stained by the end of it all you got a free hotdog. they grow those in indiana too, (you know) free hotdogs, buns ketchup mustard and all, fresh o the farm. but the relish, that will cost ya. this is baseball in the midwest. at chet bartels memorial eld cars park along the out eld fence and ash their headlights and honk their horns for a homerun, which will get you two free hotdogs.
CB
CB
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
The Empire Builder is
SAW Sarah Wurzburg CB Chester Bennett and AWS Andrew Strasburg With i4 contributions from GS Greg Simms JRF Jonathan Ryan Furst PEM Paul Michel i4 Design by CA Cate Anderson
BUILD THE EMPIRE AT empirebuilderzine.com
Issue 4 // Baseball is Baseball
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the empire builds. bleachers packed, standing room only at the gathers momentum, shakes third from its heels and blows a locomotive steam of dreams on its way home. dust tornadoes plume in the wake of cleats and tattered knees. i4 is here blasting through catcher masks and chest pads. i4 feels connected to a bigger community. there is a roar of clanging bleachers in DC. howls at the rst proseball in the Detroit box seats. they ponder true-self visions working 2 - 3 counts in the Denver dug-outs. foggy San Francisco weeps and bellows a er y balls and backwards K’s. seasons cities ideas and love have rolled through us. we are re ned by memorized past lives paralleling current moments – whirling, blurring by in basepaths, hawking peanuts in the aisles, boogying in between second and third. i4 on baseball: the sport of romance, ideals, nostalgia, and bubble gum. baseball spans seasons and poetic sentiment. our pens are as hot as cy young’s fastball. thank you for reading. this issue is dedicated to the fans. the bleeding heart poets. but particularly everyone else who watches the games but has no idea who we are. signed , right eld fence. the spirit swells in grandstands of america. i4
THE BUILDERS
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
Infinite Summer // AWS A Connoisseur of Baseball // SAW Guest Contributor // GS Manny the Scalper // AWS sea.ttleorbaseb.all // CB An Impossible Catch // JRF The #3 Game I Ever Saw // AWS The Kings Cards // AWS The Game Was Lost, Illustration // PEM Peer Pressure Patriotism // SAW All Sorts of Things Could Happen // JRF Fitness // JRF Where Have All the Sports Poets Gone // CB Chet Bartels & Free Hot Dogs // CB
ISSUE FOUR
INFINITE / / / / / / / / / SUMMER
the big time at-bats. v. Back to the bench with him already, the locker room mentor for the youth. v. He was the only one in all of 'em hitting in May. e innings in-betweens. We lead o brewing beer. Racking beer precisely . Running the fermented beer from its fermenting bucket, to another bucket, so the beer clears. e yeasty sediment is le behind. In my old linoleum oor kitchen perpetually sullied by hardened dust of past nights' dreams, in a hot-haze light, we call signals to each other. OK you sterilize the bucket. Already done man. Nice one. en grab the hose. Got it. Is it sealed tight? Yeah. Ok let 'er rip. Nice, it smells so great. Dude it's not sealed tight. Man yeah it is OH shit what do I do what do I do? I got it. Nice save. We rack. We drink beer. We jaw on the stoop. e sun owers grow high in the front yard. e neighbors unhurriedly pass by. ey glance up from the sidewalk at two boys dressed in annel short-visor ball caps, sipping beers, philosophizing on the designated hitter. All the windows in the house are open. ere is the faro buzz of fans whirling upstairs on high. e sidewalk is covered with chalk poetry and sketches. e summer blows over. We mount bikes. In my pack the Cannon AE1, yellow-lined notepad, water and eyeglasses, a sharpened pencil. We ride for Coors Field up 25th-Washington-24th-Blake-one stop for the peanut guy. Because baseball demands ritual. e old grizzly, white as the Rocky Mountain peaks beard, gut like he eats the le overs daily, roasting 'em authentic and hot. ey beat every store-bought bag from King Scoops. His little youngy daughter pulls out a warm brown sack for us, an angel serving peanuts, and we are ready now, armed by pre-game ritual. We don't wait got the gates in our sights. We stick greedy claws in the bag, forgetting shells on the sidewalk, littering like we're already in the aisle, our eyes on the neon play-at-the plate. is is the rear gate to the park, the summertime sanctuary, the only sports stands open for summer. Where brighthot high-desert days become the reason we dig the twilight and warm embraces. e Sox and e Rocks alite here for interleague play. We sit in seats close to the eld watching the players play. We perch in the pavilion mid- rst, the Purple Peaks down one early, from the third row close enough to see Gonzo adjusting his crotch. Playing catch with Blackmon, the July call-up won't make it to August. Close enough to comprehend the swagger. With our backs turned to the jumbotron, no distracting short-attention-span-indulging mid-inning theatrics. Only catch hit run slide. For complementary entertainment we exercise debates of passion and history. Like for instance Helton's lost his heart, doesn't hustle down the line to the bag. v. Bull shit. He's an athletic conservationist. He's playing sustainably out there conserving power for In the Fourth, once the rhythm's established, the perfect game and no hitter grails lost for another night, and the rst time my buddy asks but not before, it's time to make the trip to the lines, the concessions looming over the grandstands. Because baseball tickets are repaid only one way. Two polish, two heavy. Waiting in line is the hardest part, and it's got to be this line too; the only unironic tap pouring Coors Banquet in Coors Field. But desperately longing for a return to those seats. As in how I missed back-to-back bombs by Gri ey Jr. and A-Rod at SafeCo in '99. at day I rode the bus with turquoise seats from the Tacoma Holiday Inn, my uncle and I standing for hot snacks, meanwhile one goes two goes, we only watching on small monitors over the vendor's visor. Now with draughts and dogs in my arms I'm on seat return, but rst take the sip from the top of both cups, the waiter's sip, the sip that is lost otherwise in aisles and crowd collisions, take the sip for walking room. And load those brats up with every color of high fructose corn syrup. Red and yellow and green. Over the Seventh the beer hums in our heads, the ballpark pints make their charm, rallied those two quickies on the porch earlier when the night was still hot. We stretch, a choir singing together. With arms draped over our shoulders we sway and sing and feel the notwired deep July rhythm. Plugged into evening character-building, concentrating on one solitary activity for nine innings. All six senses engage with the game. We ignore when they tell us to MAKE SOME NOISE. Flip em o when they ash GET LOUD. Feel baseball signi cance. Touch sacri ce. Hear hard working bats cracking. Taste sweet victory. e rst meeting of the Denver Society for the Preservation of Tangibility. Let the night turn. By the irteenth the fans wobble deadbeat, wait for the summer night hero. Most gone. Grounders, dribblers, foul-pops caught by the catch behind home plate. Nothing doing until they walk Tulowitzki. In steps the easy-out journeyman Ty Wiggington. e hackneyed traveler blips a pitch into shallow center. Tulowitzki o . Dogout hauls around third no look for the coach just digs up dust and slides for the cameras Safe. e Rocks win. e Great Rocky Mountain Empire bows in the distance. e Cowtown takes game one from the Mighty City of the Midwest, Lake Michigan's Guardian O cer. We walk out admiring our fellows who remained, some raw some wild some sleepy some child. We tip our hats and unlock our bicycles. We pedal in packs-of-one to our old homes of Denver, Cowtown City in the High Plains, at the edge of the Empire. Where homebrew kegs repose in basements and ardenthearted fans dream of September turnaround streaks. On lonesome rides we reminisce on the pitches, the pageantry, the humor, the endurance. We roll o into another In nite Summer night.
AWS
A Connoisseur of Baseball
Perhaps watching baseball is like yoga it centers you, let’s you escape your thoughts to consider something else. Else that is repetitious, movement a er movement the same every time, yet not boring, a yoga master can see the virtue of continuous cycles of similar plays that are always di erent. Today the players and crowd are not the same as the next day. Each time it is a new practice. When someone likes baseball they have patience, they are idealistic, value tradition or ceremony, can be swept away in a moment and let their mind wander. Admire simple physical motion that they have done themselves, yet appreciate some do it much better. Are able to sit alone in a room and read a book or think, be by themselves, they are loyal creatures who can understand a need of some for a routine.
SAW GS
on taking 131-25-2 despite the fact the seat to which I was assigned was 131-29-6: a sonnet of one hundred forty one
just sitting and looking like a pretty how do you do and a bleacher-seat bench and a smile and so prettyand i wanted (and i hope shewanted) just to talk and watch everyone look at how pretty she is and i thinking it would be ok to sit next to herand her saying so and for the rst time in my life actually doing it and stopping and introducing myself ‘Hi’ (in brevity) (in bravery) and telling her what a lovely little how do you do she makes and it’s impossible to con ne such joy in one hundred and forty sylla-bles.
I wish I owned a Googlemachine 1440ie bluepixel megatooth etc.++
Instead, I put my phone through the washer and dryer, so the screen melted o and I don’t know what’s happened to the Tigers since the Tampa Bay series. It is, however, extremely clean.
Manny The Scalper
Manny e Scalper works the corner 18th and Larimer. Carves a trail in concrete. Well souled, Always needs tickets. He hawked the bullseye seat for Bichette’s blast at y percent mark-up. He had four le in his pocket when Carroll won it in the 13th. He gives 'em away a er the sixth but Manny won’t tell you that. Who’s got extras I need tickets Who's sellin' Who's sellin' Hey Amigo Two just for you Don’t say no It’s Tulo and CarGo Don’t say no It’s the Rocky Mountain Power Show.
Q&A
Q:Is he friendly or shrewd? A: Shrewd. Q: Does he play favorites? A: He favors old men. Feels sorry for ‘em. Can’t help it. But only for a moment. en he’s tough as hell turns anybody away with nothing -no pricebecause you take the deal when Manny’s giving. Q: Why does he scalp? A: He scalps because he is a distributor. A broker of baseball. He facilitates the coming in, lls the stands, plays arbitrage on wins and losses, knows the lineup as well as Tracy. Q:What are his dreams? A: He doesn’t dream. He sleeps.
AWS
sea.ttleorbaseb.all
baseb.all is a past time,a tradition,it is on big screens,& n big ballparks.kids fawn a er ball players.adults compile stats w/ pencils & red pens.my friend jonathan tells me stats r important n baseb.all (he is an a cionado).baseb.all has become an institution.it provides strangers points of conversation on trains & buses.it allows bonds 2 b formed across isles & bleacher seats.it is a part of the american culture & scene.there is beauty there.there is beauty & energy @ the base.b.all diamond. once i found a ball eld amongst the trees streets & parks n seattle.i rode n on a bike w/ a camera & lm n my bag.i heard voices & cracks, rattles & laughter.i had happened upon a rag-tag game. some 10 odd kids were playing baseb.all n tight jeans,black & acid washed,t-shirts & a couple jerseys hang on their shoulders.baseb.alls r littered behind homeplate.there r only 2 out elders & no catcher. slouched along the fence,hipsters waited.cigarettes rolled smoke from their lips.pbr & the champagne of beers dripped from their tongues.talk along da bench & chatter in tha eld. <bat..ter>. y balls & hard grounders electri ed them.i sat & watched.it was chilly.i snapped 3 pictures. behind home.plate,through the fence,& from le - eld.i remembered my little league diamond.my backyard,thinning grass @ the pitchers place & a dust bowl 2 the le of a beat up piece of black rubber,nubbed where da Tstand used to jut skyward. baseb.all,it seems the same as n my childhood.the same sounds & movements.yells & rundowns.yet the hipsters have their own culture outside of baseb.all.n truth the hipsters have always felt disparate from all other niches of american culture and society.i guess i dont have 2 tell u.but on the eld swinging & throwing,it all seemed ok.ok 4 me 2 B a part of their niche.ok 4 me 2 sit & watch,associating through baseb.alls poetic medium,& smile,& feel a little bit closer than when they zip through red-lites n seattle on xed gear bikes w/ high & tight bags instead of pitches.2day i didnt hav-ta choose btwn base.ba.ll & C@tell. it is baseb.all a er all.a tradition.an institution.a past time.like twain.ansel adams.andy warhol.elvis.guthrie.abelincoln @ pioneers.visions.lovers.leavers.dreamers.builders.com. all quelled in2 1. impervious to swaggering trends and fads.it brings us together with something to talk
An IMPOSSIBLE CATCH
e Polo Grounds in Harlem hosts a World Series game Indians versus the Giants in the 8th inning frame September 29th in 1954 Runners on 1st and 2nd 2-2 is the score An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch I will elucidate a CATCH that I never got to see I study an account and it reveals itself to me Liddle’s on the mound and Wertz is at the plate Defenders in position, for Liddle’s next pitch they wait An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch Liddle makes his pitch, a disappearing streak of light Wertz swings the bat, a blur too fast for sight A re-like explosion, a violent sounding CRACK Willie Mays is in center eld, in motion towards the track An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch e ball is like a comet, it is burning in the air Seems beyond the range of what Willie Mays can snare He’s running at full speed, like a sprinter in a race e ball keeps on carrying but Mays is keeping pace An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch Legs and arms frenetic, he is completely turned around Glove near his le shoulder, his back is to the mound What happened next it’s hard to tell it all went by so fast ankfully immortalized are moments from the past An impossible catch, an impossible catch Willie Mays made an impossible catch
CB
JRF
THE #3 GAME I EVER SAW
is is the #3 best game I ever saw.
I wake early. Nine year old feet touch the red rag carpet. e Niagara Escarpment runs from here to the Lutheran Church of Escarpment. Over on Upper Mountain Road built last week with the hand of my father. It is light in the near-solstice June 16 morning. e window is cracked. e ceiling fan whirs. A breeze blows and li s the curtains. I pull my glove from underneath the pillow. I pop hard few cracks in the mitt. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. I wear the shirt not with the American NY, but with the classy New York top hat hung to an angle of authority and distinguish over the bat of Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio. Down the hall's a wa emaker ringing in the kitchen. Eggs and sausage links gurgle on the stove. e cold turquoise tile oor. A deep morning voice behind a newspaper at the kitchen table. Eat up boy there’ll be a drive today. It’ll be long and pretty. Fill up. In the eve of my 10th birthday, my parents and I made a trip to Cleveland. We back out from the garage. Mom rides serene in the front seat. We drive down the escarpment to the river, still ice cold blue, roiling to its plunge. e summer trees, and the nimblewill on the banks green for just this moment. Now. We follow the river back against its course through Lackawanna and Blasdell and Big Tree. Towawanda, Kenmore, Sloan. en on Interstate 90 west, 180 miles alongside Lake Erie, the old industrial grizzly of the Great Lakes. e windows open the whole time, letting the morning in on the longest stretch of lined American concrete. Dreaming of the boys who also made the drive, Roger and Mickey and Yogi and Whitey. We stop not for gas or food or bathrooms. en Cuyahoga County, Dead Man’s Curve, downtown in the Forest City of Prosperity and Progress. Cleveland Stadium. e Lakefront Stadium. e Big Ballpark. Where fans come in the eighty thousands to watch a game of patience and calculus. e park of the AL Central Cleveland Indians since 1932. ey broke ground in the middle of the Great Depression, when people built things to beat their fears. When they took action instead of standing still talking. A park where no one’s hit one out in deep center. Bill Veeck moves the fence in and out, depending on the day, the weather. ( ey tear it down in ’93. ey forget then how to x things.)
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Below is an account of the game.
In the late morning I see the midges and may ys swirling on the mound, groundskeepers bat them away, chalk dirt, geometrize the mound, rake sand. Mother leads me for a hot dog, coke, bag of nuts. e ballgame entree for a nickel and three pennies. e park half full, the empty church, hollow echoes of the sharp cracks of the Indians taking batting practice. Rollie Sheldon and Jim Perry warming in the bullpens. Perry breathes easy for Mickey’s name does not grace the line-up on this a ernoon. Top of the rst Perry walks Maris but strikes out Blanchard where Mickey should’ve stepped in to bring him in. e Cleveland Indians hit Rollie hard. Double single single single. Four for four has Sheldon Stunned in the bottom of the rst. ey add more in the second. We sit quietly in our pews. But then the Yanks take back two in the fourth. Pop looks over and says ere’s some runs for you Stevie. And Blanchard bombs one to the fans in the h. So it’s 7-4 in the 7th. With only nine outs le in the game, the Cleveland Indians call in reinforcement arms, Bob Allen in for Perry. He wilts in the Yankees’ momentum, straightaway doubled by Lopez, walks Tresh, brings up Roger Maris. Swing crack clap. e Yankees are back. ree run distance for Roger Maris. en in the 8th with one runner on, Mickey Mantle steps in. e Mick. Saved for this moment. Fate at the plate. Bob Allen there to serve him. And he sends Bob’s pitch back the other way hard and high and Ruthian. Note how the Yankees stormed back to take the lead in the top of the 8th on a Mantle pinch hit 3 run homer. He had just come back from the disabled list. We stand and roar on the Midwest planes lled with sit-down Indians. e mighty Yankees of Niagara Falls New York come back from 6-0, put their names on top of the scorecard 9-7. I dance in the aisle. I crush peanut shells and raise nine year arms in victory. My dad rests his on my mother’s shoulder. ey smile. e Yankees lose 9-8. Give it up like this: one back in the 8th, then walk-o two run circuit clout to Coates in the ninth. e Indians fans re-joyed. Me and my parents walk out with our heads up. We move back to the point where the river overtakes the cuesta, telling tales of Maris and Mantle and Blanchard. Like the escarpment, carved out of me over nine innings on this day is a new wisdom that will not be eeting. e understanding of baseball. e understanding of America. It was worth the trip even though Cleveland won in a walk o . is is the #3 game I ever saw.
AWS
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The Kings Cards
e King’s Cards behind a rusting Valparaiso Indiana McDonalds. Egg sandwich wrappers, grease pits, stains, a crumbling curb mark the parking lot. Heavy hot air. Middle July intensity dispenses roar on the senses, embroils tra c, cotton, and perspiration. e humidity haze enfogs the trudge to the door. e sun overwhelms unsunglassed eyes. Sunshiny light re ects o the churling white paint and the silver door handle. Travel hastily inside. e bell rings. e air’s dense and cold. ere’s mildew funk and the cheese of rotting boxes. Baseball cards unsold decay enclosed in glass. Grab bags mothball to worthless. e carpet matches the walls matches the wood. Ordure brown. e old whiteboard ceiling, corners absent, panel lights covered in vaseline. e white index boxes everywhere are the papermuseums to childhood dreams. Triple-A lifers led in dark rows, smiling boys on picture day wearing borrowed numbers, high school statistics the only history they exist. e only hint of why they’re smiling at you. Liquid collateral sitting on shelves demanding market prices. People printed on paper. He stands in place. Wearing the same cap, navy too-loose trousers, a white t-shirt crusting in the pits, the crust matches the carpet and the wood walls. His face shadowed by the odd and choppy lengthened stubble of a man who hasn’t shaven in a very long time. Hasn’t needed to. Customers keep their eyes on the cards. His sheltered by oversized wire glasses. He keeps a posture at the glass card case cognizantly one foot back, allows for his oating gut. Customers avoid the look-back scowl that silences questions and optimistic bids for bargains. e boxes stir with his cluttered breath. It smells like a loser’s dugout. Infrequently but enough to notice, Old saggy Carl pulls the hanky from a back pocket and wipes the glass with spittle. He polishes to a sheen the security case enclosing paper vainglory. He knows the current becket, the unrealized gains and losses, and which way they're trending. Not once changes prices. He permeates the shop from his two grounded feet behind the glass sinking in onetime-grey black wa e shoes. His subtle nod is the only acknowledgement nonpaper people are present. Survey the Kings’ cards. Shop e ciently impulsively. Peruse cautiously, touch little. e smell and the Saggy’s bearing down on you demand decisions. Quick. Break down the ver Papa slipped in-hand on the way out on the way here. Measure value in history and change. A John Wettland and Bernie Williams two for one. e Frank omas Big Hurt MVP edition, quoted for a premium secured behind independent hard-plastic. Kenny Lo on stealing second, dainty Mark McGwire in Oakland, Joe Carter roundtrotting third with the triumph hand. Old Saggy watches over, Oma waits by. No words spoken. Nod for the Big Hurt and a pack of Topps with the bubblegum stalehard inside. Don’t touch the glass when yielding the ver. He meters change in-hand and passes directly. Oma takes the other and leads to the car. Back to the Valparaiso lunacy. With summer treats captured from the King.
AWS
Peer Pressure Patriotism
ere has been a recent change in pressure for patriotism not only the National Anthem, which some might not want to sing to, but America the Beautiful sung at the 7th inning stretch? You are expected to stand for that? People are automated when it comes to the National Anthem, many sing, some don’t. Many more don’t know the actual words, but pretend to sing nonetheless. is demand is focused on sporting events, in particular, America’s pastime. Continually adding more songs and fervor coercing attendees to stand
at the whim of the singer on the microphone who generally has no connection to what it means to each person to a member of this particular country. e extra idolatry slipped in a couple years ago, but no one seemed to talk about it, so it’s now standard, more standing, singing or pretending to, more ags, less correlation to an individual’s thought.
PEM
SAW
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ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
WITH PITTSBURGH IN 1ST PLACE – THE NATION WAS IN SHOCK I SAW IT IN THE BOXSCORE AND I COULD HARDLY TALK I BOUGHT A PIRATES JERSEY AND THINGS WERE LOOKING GREAT I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT MAYBE TIGER WOODS WILL RECOVER FROM HIS WOES HE’LL KEEP IT UNDER RAPS AND FOCUS ON HIS FOES NO MORE ESCAPADES HE’LL TAKE UP PUZZLES, JACKS AND CHESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS CAN HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS I CALLED UP ALL MY FRIENDS AND SAID PITTSBURGH’S BACK! WALKER AND McCUTCHEN ARE LEADING THE ATTACK! THOUGH I DO NOT KNOW HALF THE GUYS WHO WALK UP TO THE PLATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT IMAGINE TERRELL OWENS NOT UTTERING A PEEP OR BRETT FAVRE SPECULATION FINALLY PUT TO SLEEP MAYBE ROGER CLEMENS WOULD MAN UP AND CONFESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS A HANRAHAN POSTER IS PASTED ON MY WALL I CHERISH MY CORREIA SOUVENIR SIGNED BALL I’LL PAWN MY DOG FOR TICKETS AT AN INFLATED INTEREST RATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT THE MOTHERSHIP MIGHT SPARE US OF THE YANKEES AND THE SOX MAYBE TIM McCARVER WILL BE SHOWN THE DOOR BY FOX THE COACHING GURU, BELICHICK, MIGHT LEARN HOW TO DRESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
I QUIT MY STABLE JOB SO I COULD WATCH GAMES ON TV I THREW AWAY MY CROSS – NOW I WEAR THE LETTER P I AM SO CONSUMED; MY MORTGAGE PAYMENT’S LATE I WAS PULLING FOR THE PIRATES, UNTIL THEY LOST 10 STRAIGHT LEBRON HOLDS A PRESSER AND REQUESTS AN URGENT TRADE HE SAYS, SEND ME BACK TO CLEVELAND – I’M TIRED OF DWAYNE WADE MIAMI’S WHITE SAND BEACHES ARE CAUSING HIM DISTRESS ALL SORTS OF THINGS COULD HAPPEN IF THE PIRATES FIND SUCCESS
FITNESS
MY STOMACH TURNS WHEN I EAT A BIG MAC I GET A FREE SIDE OF HEARTBURN WITH MY JUMBO JACK TACO BELL NACHOS PRODUCE NOXIOUS GAS AND KFC LEADS TO THE OL’ TRIPLE BYPASS WORLD CLASS ATHLETES ARE LIKE FINE TUNED MACHINES THEIR BODIES ARE TEMPLES OF PROTEIN AND GREENS CHISELED, SCULPTED AND TOUGHER THAN STEEL WE POKE AT THEIR BICEPS TO SEE IF THEY’RE REAL THERE’S A WIDENING GAP BETWEEN ATHLETES AND FANS THEY’RE LIKE GODS COMPARED TO US SLOBS IN THE STANDS IN ANCIENT GREECE YOU WERE FORCED TO BE FIT NOW, WHEN I RISE FROM THE COUCH I SIGH, MAN, I QUIT BILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN HEALTHCARE AND PILLS DIET AND FITNESS THWARTS SICKNESS AND ILLS FOR THE SAKE OF THE BUDGET IT WOULD BE WISE THAT A LAW REQUIRES THAT WE EXERCISE HUNTING FOR FOOD IS A THING OF THE PAST NO NEED FOR FITNESS WITH SURPLUS AMASSED WE STILL VALUE VIGOR; ON FIELDS, DIAMONDS AND COURTS WE’D BE LIKE BOBA FETT IF IT WASN’T FOR SPORTS MONTANA, JORDAN, DIMMAGIO, THEY’RE LIFTING WEIGHTS; I’M LAYING LOW A TWO-A-DAY ROUTINE FOR BROADWAY JOE MAYS RUNS SPRINTS AND I CAN’T TOUCH MY TOES
JRF
JRF
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chet bartels and free hotdogs
the city cut back some corn and grass elds to make more parking so the ford and chevy longbeds could idle for games and give teenagers room to menace. indiana cornrows and baseball elds bathed in summer make the sun last like the mississippi is long and freckles dense. neighborhood kids pedaled porch to porch calling for a baseball game, in bright-light-mosquito-swarms with pink bubble gum by the bakers dozen, while dinner got cold on stove tops.
where have all the sports poets gone...
the poets stand rst at ball games. when mouths move in silence and whispers, poets stand. their skin next to cotton and weather. dust explodes out of their mouth exclamations made with periods pop like a catchers mitt. ngers stretch and crumple to sts - waves of excited wain vetted poets - their pens no more useful. players jog to dugouts and echoing concrete win and loss glow in the fans eyes; poets stand still and say “beautiful.” grass bends nally underfoot, the umpire collects the dust scraped game balls he wipes the leather, deciding(ly) – he collects the poetry for his resume or tosses it to the last kid standing which must be where all that sports poetry goes.
the ball diamonds were as close as a kiss to the chlorinated public pool where whistles and boyhood dreams of red-spandex-strapped-lifeguards gallivanted in the noonday heat until the ballpark- ood-lights over owed the concrete patio and stainless steel walls. i wasnt an all star. i knew id never play in the major leagues. i played center and second but watched plenty with two feet in tall grass, ngers threaded through a chain-link fence. in the mornings i always paid catatonic attention to box scores recited by my dad in his blue uniform and three shade darker dickies - with a rhythmic lap that put shakespeare to shame. the smell of nylon mesh tops and pickled polyester pinstripes made kids swing harder and throw farther. rag tagged. every night. i slipped chet lemon, cecil elder, ryan sandberg, ozzie smith, and travis fryman preciously into tight and clear hardened plastic. i polished those midwest stars october portraits spit polish shiny and showed them to my brother. and we talked ball and stared at BECKETT lines until we went blind till the morning light. in indiana the moms and sisters not playing so ball at denny feagler memorial eld served popcorn and pepsi at the concession stands. if you were dusty and grass stained by the end of it all you got a free hotdog. they grow those in indiana too, (you know) free hotdogs, buns ketchup mustard and all, fresh o the farm. but the relish, that will cost ya. this is baseball in the midwest. at chet bartels memorial eld cars park along the out eld fence and ash their headlights and honk their horns for a homerun, which will get you two free hotdogs.
CB
CB
THE EMPIRE BUILDER
The Empire Builder is
SAW Sarah Wurzburg CB Chester Bennett and AWS Andrew Strasburg With i4 contributions from GS Greg Simms JRF Jonathan Ryan Furst PEM Paul Michel i4 Design by CA Cate Anderson
BUILD THE EMPIRE AT empirebuilderzine.com
