Poem in Your Pocket 2014: Baseball Edition

          Today's the day! It's only 8:22, and I've already shared my poem with 33 people!
          I guess before I get too far into this, if you are still uncertain about what Poem in Your Pocket Day is all about, check out the Academy of American Poets or my blog post from last year.
          Now, I have to honestly say that I was still undecided on my selection until the eleventh hour as I've been reading so many poems lately with my students and on my own. Earlier this year I shared my new favorite Billy Collins poem, and I seriously thought about recycling it, but I decided to find something that I hadn't shared before.
          I also contemplated using one of a handful that a couple of my colleagues and I are thinking about using with our students to identify figurative language (ones that aren't in too many classroom anthologies): "I'll Tell You How the Sun Rose" by Emily Dickinson, "Night" by Patricia Hubbell, or "Autumn" also by Patricia Hubbell (but without an electronic link)--all three of which I found in Piping Down the Valleys Wild, a collection edited by Nancy Larrick. You'll notice, though that I didn't choose any of them.
          No, with the oncoming baseball season (and yes, I'm back to coaching again), I wanted a baseball poem this year. So I debated whether to use a classic like "The Base Stealer" by Robert Francis, "Analysis of Baseball" by May Swenson, or even the mighty "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, but I felt that they were all overused.
          I thought about choosing a piece from Ron Koertge's novel in poetry Shakespeare Bats Cleanup or even its sequel Shakespeare Makes the Playoffs. Not this time. At one point I even contemplating using one of my own, one with a baseball element--"For Zachary"--but that seemed too egotistical.
          My mind still craved something new, a poem previously unfamiliar to me.  And then I found it late last night:

"Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt" by David Bottoms

On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence. 

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down. 

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.

Like so many great baseball poems, it's about more than baseball.

          Please share with me and everyone around you, your poem. I'm interested to see what you have chosen to carry in your pocket today.
          And if you hadn't noticed, this post is replete with excellent poetry.