Underrated performances. The bane of the Idol competitor’s existence.

Unless you’re a token Hot Dude or Chick, or have the benefit of week-after-week pimping, an Underrated Performance can mean a tragic end for your Idol run. Fans will vote their fingers off for a trainwreck performance from their fave, to save them. Casual viewers vote for the show-stopping judge-tongue-bathing performances because they’re encouraged to. It’s the underrated performances that are the most dangerous. Dark horse contestants have been shock-booted or worse due to underrated performances. And here are some that just flat-out deserved better, even if those performances gave them another week or two.

1.) Leslie Hunt – Natural Woman [season 6]

When I first heard her sing in the season 6 semi-finals I hadn’t heard anything about her… and I figured she was one of those stealth amazing singers [in the spirit of LaToya London and Bo Bice] after hearing the first few bars of this. Not all chicks on Idol need to be diva-esque belters, but that’s the box most of them were stuck in. But Leslie had chops and a fun soulful groove – unfortunately her combination of no carefully-edited backstory + no Mariah vocal chords didn’t bode well for her. She deserved better.

2.) Anoop Desai – Angel Of Mine [season 8]

So Anoop Dogg was a frontrunner before this. People loved him and his crazy vocals and penchant for singing awesome mid-90s R&B hits. He should have gotten through based on this performance – it was right in the wheelhouse his fans had seen him in. What’s more – word is he dedicated it to a classmate at UNC who died a year earlier. The song fit his voice perfectly. And if Simon hadn’t pretty much directed people to vote for the second coming of Bruce Willis, he probably wouldn’t have needed that wild card spot.

3.) David Hernandez – It’s All Coming Back To Me [season 7]

I’m pretty sure this was before the Strippergate rumour came about, but my opinion would have stayed the same. Even though this was during “80s” week – so he chose this on a technicality based on it being written for Meat Loaf and he still sang Celine Dion’s version – but he really hit the musicality in it with all the dramatics he could inflect in it, even though he’s still no Celine or Meat Loaf [but really, who is?]. Loved it.

4.)  Scott MacIntyre – Just The Way You Are [season 8]

This isn’t the version on the show. YouTube doesn’t have it. But here it is, fresh from the “Pick any song you want” week [or in Idol producer terms, "iTunes hits" week]. Scott got a lot of crap from Simon for never leaving his piano, but seriously, 1.) Dude is blind. Give him a freaking break, and 2.) How often do you see Elton John or Billy Joel leave their piano? And speaking of Billy Joel, man oh man, was this song perfect for him or what?

5.)  Trenyce – Proud Mary [season 2]

So… Josh Gracin more or less murdered Neil Sedaka’s “Bad Blood” and escaped unscathed, and Trenyce channels Tina and gets the ax? This is just one of several examples of the sacrificial lamb that can be the underrated performance. She wasn’t my favorite contestant in season 2, not by a longshot, but this was easily one of the best performances of the night. Maybe if she’d done some of Ms. Turner’s famous dance moves she would have done better?

6.)  George Huff - Lean On Me [season 3]

Yes, this performance won him Simon’s wild card vote, but I felt like George was underrated in so many ways. He wasn’t even originally chosen for the top 32 that year; someone’s arrest cleared the way for him. Not only did he seem like an amazingly nice person but he had a rich and soulful voice I could listen to all day. This song was right in his wheelhouse – very “bring me to church!” and all. And needed far more recognition that it earned, even if it did get Simon’s love at the end.

7.)  Amy Adams – Sin Wagon [season 3]

More people associate this song with Carrie Underwood’s version in season 4, but Amy’s version was far and away better. The lyrics sounded much more real and believable coming from her – and this is a song where lyrics count. Unfortunately, they had to change the “mattress dancing” lyric to “crazy dancing” [which was just weird and off-putting] and she got voted off the following week. Sadness. She was better than 10th place.

8.)  Elliott Yamin – Somebody To Love [season 5]

First of all, the fact that Elliott hadn’t even heard this song before Queen week on Idol speaks volumes for his ability to sing it. This song is flippin’ HARD to sing. And just like every song he sang on Idol, he did amazingly with it. How it landed him in the bottom 3 that week, I’ll never know. I guess it didn’t have the zeitgeist appeal then as it does now [what with it being covered by the Glee kids and all] but seriously, when you ask me what songs were Elliott’s best from his Idol run, this is in the top 3, handily.

9.)  Jason Castro – Travelin’ Thru [season 7]

I was a HUGE Castro fan in his season; I thought he was heavily underrated in his entire run. This song during Dolly Parton week was quite tailor-made for him and his style, and with his acoustic guitar he did a really great job. Not many of Dolly’s songs are familiar to our generation but this was released this decade and was up for an Oscar. It’s too bad the judges weren’t crazy for it, but he still made it through safely. Bonus points for the studio version – it’s pretty awesome.

10.)  Allison Iraheta – Cry Baby [season 8]

She was underrated from the beginning of the finals, but to think this performance would get her voted off? Once again, an example of the underrated performance taking the hit – Danny Gokey’s “Scream On” mobilized his fanbase into full force, Adam Lambert was recovering from his ” bottom 2″ incident the week before, and Kris… well, he’s just amazing. Allison took the hit here, big time. The judges were lukewarm and she deserved better from them because, well, just listen to her!

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The poems in this collection are on wrestling—the collegiate and amateur styles—but also how we wrestle with life, where we find wrestling in our lives, plus our gods, prophets and heroes past, those who have wrestled the classic bouts. It is modern and boundary-busting, and at the same time about tradition, a duality significant to both the poetry and wrestling communities. It is not about professional wrestling. Although that would make a wonderful project on its own, there is not enough poetry about amateur wrestling, the collegiate, Olympic, and folk styles.

The rest of this intro will be of interest to you if you would like to use any of the artwork or poetry yourself, and if you are interested in why such a collection came together—maybe for the first time. If not, then scan down to below Catherine Edmunds‘ 2009 drawing called “Greek wrestlers,” and begin reading. If you are looking for a particular poet’s work, or to see if it is included, simply click “Ctrl-F” on your keyboard. Here is a list of the living contributing poets you will find:

        Rane Arroyo
        John D. Berry
        Rus Bowden
        Kimberly Dark
        Susie DeFord
        Lori Desrosiers
        Susan Kelly-DeWitt
        David Hernandez
        Drax Ireland
        Jayson Iwen
        John Jeffire
        Andy Jones
        Jeff Kass
        Steve Meador
        Muhammad Afzal Mirza
        Steve Parker
        Gilbert Pye
        Don Schaeffer
        Muhammad Amir Sheikh
        Michael D. Snediker
        G.C. Smith
        Judy Swann
        Terreson
        John Timpane
        Pamela Uschuk

In lieu of bios, links to the contributors’ web sites are provided from their names. If you would like to reach them, most of the time you will find contact information there. If not, e-mail me (lowelldude@aol.com), and I will try to connect you.

The works in this collection fall under Creative Commons—Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported. This way, as you share these poems, the poets’ names remains attached, so that they continue to get credit for their work as it is passed around. In the spirit of this, each piece of artwork used below has just beneath it, as part of the image, an attribution that includes what the work is, who made it, and when. This Creative Commons agreement also protects the artists and poets from someone else making money from their works, while cutting them out. You’ll need permission for such a commercial venture. It allows, however, for you to feel free to share the works, to keep the poems handy and pass them around, and speak them at events. If you have sought these poems out for noncommercial use, wonderful!, please write the poet a thank you, but the answer is already yes.

A few years back, when I was blogging daily at Bud Bloom, November arrived, and the poetry posting necessarily slowed down, as wrestling season was about to begin. My son Dan was wrestling in college at the time, and I was a moderating contributor at MassWrestling.com, working on a comprehensive directory of all collegiate wrestlers from Massachusetts, in order that wrestlers, their family, and friends, could see how their high school wrestlers were faring in college, even if they were still active. Part of this, was to create a comprehensive list of wrestling colleges around the country, which was shared with other wrestling forums in other states. I made a brief post on the poetry blog called Wrestling With Poetry in November. I wanted to include wrestling poetry in that blog, and found some in a translation of Homer’s Iliad, but had difficulty finding it elsewhere. Since creating that blog post, I then noticed that many others who go online in search for “wrestling poetry”, come up with my post. And I always felt that that post was not allowing the searchers to find the jackpot they were looking for. Thus, there is demand, but short supply. This blog post is a wrestling poetry jackpot.

Back in July, I made a call for submissions of new and recent wrestling poems, by posting at over 20 wrestling forums, over 20 poetry forums, and to over 2500 members of Facebook. The response has been remarkable, as you can read for yourself below. And a high percentage of these gifted poets, have been or still are wrestlers or members of the wrestling community themselves. With these poems by living poets, I have merged classics. Included also are fresh translations of classic poems, and renditions of scriptural texts.

My thanks go to all the contributors listed above. Each have been a pleasure to work with. My thanks also to those who have guided this project with ideas, such as Joyce Nower, who turned me onto Emily Dickinson’s many wrestling poems, and Dennis Greene, who reminded me of the classic wrestling scene in Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha.” Thanks also to you for finding these poems, for shaking hands with them, and taking the time to read them, even to grapple with them when you hear the metaphoric whistle. It’s your match now, your time to enter the ring.

C.

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by Jeff Kass

    White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
    WPHS coach, 1988-90

   
All wrestlers practice failing

   
        We need to know what to do
        when we’re getting cranked.

        Inevitably, we will be on our backs.

        Somebody will be tougher, somebody will be quicker, somebody
        will be strong enough to knock us flat.  It’s called looking at the lights
        as if when we’re horizontal and helpless, we’re also gazing at paradise.

        All I know is it’s hot down there.  It stinks.  The friction of your head rubbing
        against the mat could start a bonfire.  The guy who’s decking you is breathing
        in your ear, a rush of panting grunts.  His sweat drips in your hair and your
        girlfriend is watching from the bleachers as his muscles glisten and you are
        buried.  Your teammates are groaning and urging you to keep fighting
        but secretly they doubt you won’t surrender and the referee is cutting
        the air at smaller and flatter angles to signal the shrinking breadth
        between the mat and your shoulders and he poises to slap, he poises
        to slap and that is why every day in practice we must drill and rehearse
        for failure.

        It’s called bridging.  Make your neck a great spoon stirring the soup
        of your head.  Stir it left.  Stir it right.  Hold it.  Hold it.  He will be a ten-
        ton slab trying to break you flat—you must resist, your neck must insist
        no, with your neck no, with your neck no, you must train your neck
        to insist NO.

   
Previously published in Anderbo

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by Terreson

   
Antaeus’s Son to His Father’s Killer

   
        Here we are, my mercenary Greek,
        back at the same crossroads
        where you bested my father.
        The ground when you pinned him down
        is what defeated you in
        hold after hold or until
        you found the way to filet his strength,
        the way a fisherman’s instinct
        cleans flesh from the bone of earth.

        That’s when you bettered him, pressing him, his feet loose,
        to your chest, enjoying his death.

        But I am not like him whose daughters
        are my mother (earth, air, fire, and water).
        I am the inbred, an avatar
        thread through elements, and whose
        original sin is my source of strength.

        Come to me please, Herakles.
        I wish to press you to my chest
        and see your eyes bulge out when you meet
        my father’s face in each hero’s moment
        defining his one hero’s defeat.

        Revenge is such a useless emotion.
        I don’t want your death; just your lost look
        in the echo of my father’s eyes on the mat.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Artists wrestled here!
        Lo, a tint Cashmere!
        Lo, a Rose!
        Student of the Year!
        For the easel here
        Say Repose!

                110

_____

   
by Gilbert Pye

   
The Ballad of Rukhana

   
        Many people challenged Muhammad at wrestling
        (they didn’t realise he was divine;
        they thought he was an ordinary bloke).

        He pummelled skull, scapula and spine,
        ripped ligament from bone, loved pestling
        puny wrong-believing bodies until they broke.

        One day Rukhana, hideous, colossal, hairy,
        strongest of the Arabs, challenges Muhammad to a bout.
        Muhammad accepts.  Bets are placed.

        The outcome is never in doubt
        (insh’allah); at first both men are wary,
        looking each other over, tense, the taste

        of raw testosterone on their lips;
        then, exponent of the sacred art,
        Muhammad makes his move, nostrils aglow

        with the smell of Rukhana’s skin and heart:
        charge, grapple, throw,
        and the infidel describes a glorious ellipse

        through the air and falls to earth like a kite
        when the wind ceases suddenly as if by decree.
        Muhammad prostrates himself before Allah, Allah

        nods at Muhammad evasively;
        Rukhana and his corner exhibit that pallor
        you see on the face of the better man having lost a fight.

        The crowd go wild, beating their chests, cheering,
        ululating, howling, miming the winning move, bearing
        the victor aloft, cavorting through the souk

        in a tumult of piety and teeth, secretly tearing
        up their betting slips.  Look!
        Allah winks and fades.  He’s disappearing!

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Because I could not stop for Death—
        He kindly stopped for me—
        The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
        And Immortality.

        We slowly drove—He knew no haste
        And I had put away
        My labor and my leisure too,
        For His Civility—

        We passed the School, where Children strove
        At Recess—in the Ring—
        We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
        We passed the Setting Sun—

        Or rather—He passed Us—
        The Dews drew quivering and chill—
        For only Gossamer, my Gown—
        My Tippet—only Tulle—

        We paused before a House that seemed
        A Swelling of the Ground—
        The Roof was scarcely visible—
        The Cornice—in the Ground—

        Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
        Feels shorter than the Day
        I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
        Were toward Eternity—

                712

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_____

   
by John Timpane

   
Beholder

a translation of Rainer Maria Rilke’s “Der Schauende”

   
        I tell the storm is coming on:
        My anxious windows bear the beat
        Of branches after tedious days.
        I hear the distant things say truths
        That without friend I do not bear
        And without sister cannot love.

        There goes the all-reshaper storm,
        Through the forest, through all time
        And everything is ageless now:
        The landscape, like a verse from Psalms
        Is purpose, heft, eternity.

        Since what we wrestle with is small
        And what contends against us great,
        Let the great storm subdue us, more
        As all things in the world do; then
        We would be distant, never named.

        Our victory is in the small,
        And when we win, the smaller we.
        The Endless, the Superlative
        Does not consent to bend to us.

        The Angel of the Testament
        Came to the wrestlers.  Metal match:
        When their contending tendons stretched
        It felt beneath his fingers like
        The strings of deepening melody.

        The man this Angel overcame
        (He often won without a fight)
        Retired upright and energized,
        Made great by that hard hand, which shaped
        Him new, as if to recreate.
        The vanquished finds a victory
        Not tempting. How he grows is to
        Be pinned by ever-greater gods.

   
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

   
Der Schauende

   
        Ich sehe den Bäumen die Stürme an,
        die aus laugewordenen Tagen
        an meine ängstlichen Fenster schlagen,
        und höre die Fernen Dinge sagen,
        die ich nicht ohne Freund ertragen,
        nicht ohne Schwester lieben kann.

        Da geht der Sturm, ein Umgestalter,
        geht durch den Wald und durch die Zeit,
        und alles ist wie ohne Alter:
        die Landschaft, wie ein Vers im Psalter,
        ist Ernst und Wucht und Ewigkeit.

        Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen,
        was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß;
        ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen,
        uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen,—
        wir würden weit und namenlos.

        Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine,
        und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein.
        Das Ewige und Ungemeine
        will nicht von uns gebogen sein.
        Das ist der Engel, der den Ringern
        des Alten Testaments erschien:
        wenn seiner Widersacher Sehnen
        im Kampfe sich metallen dehnen,
        fühlt er sie unter seinen Fingern
        wie Saiten tiefer Melodien.

        Wen dieser Engel überwand,
        welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet,
        der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet
        und groß aus jener harten Hand,
        die sich, wie formend, an ihn schmiegte.
        Die Siege laden ihn nicht ein.
        Sein Wachstum ist:  der Tiefbesiegte
        von immer Größerem zu sein.

_____

   
for the people of Whitefish, Montana

   
by Pamela Uschuk

   
Black Ice

   
        I

        How easy it is to slip.
        Slowing for a switchback’s glazed curve, I
        catch the radio’s news:
                                                    a school bus carrying wrestlers
        from Browning to Whitefish
        over this same unrelenting glare
        has slammed into a tanker
        jacknifed across both lanes.  Then flames
        killing nine in the quick cold.

        Along the polished carbon dip
        and swell of the Blackfoot River, I drive
        over ice so darkly transparent
        the pavement is a well
        whose varnished shaft pulls me sliding,
        an awkward creature
        away from home.

        What needs our sorrow?
        Or passed between the stunned drivers
        when the bus brakes locked
        in that short skid?
        During the first thoughtless seconds, boys
                                                                  becoming men
        dragged friends from the sudden fire, then
        watched, helpless as rocks dislodged by current,
        those they couldn’t reach, their screams lost to
        wind biting across the dreaming world.

        II

        To drive far in this weather—
        the afternoon half-blasted by wind gray as old wood—
        invites hypnotic dreams.
                                                      I recall checking
        the rearview mirror to see
        your farewell shiver, then shrink in silver light.  Love,
        how often we’re forced apart.
        Nothing is so visible as this ice,
        black-humored, a stoic beyond desire.

        III

        There is nothing I can offer
        those boys as healing as their daring, their hearts.
        Tomorrow, I teach poetry in a high school
        not far away.  I slow
        cursing these roads hunched spinal
        with no shoulders for escape.
        Listening to the tick of studden tires on ice,
        I know how fragile the traction
        holding us, what suffering
        edges induce.

        In the furrowed rush of black water
        Frost-grained waves
        grind back into themselves,
        intent on motion to avoid the final freeze across.
        Smoothing rocks, crisp hulls of caddis,
        stone flies, last summer’s storm-rendered windfall,
        the river carves its deeper trough
        widening its embrace.

        IV

        Like a snow bank bursting, snow buntings startle
        from my tires, threading
        the river’s rough hem.
        I envy the birds’ close escape
        as they ascend—
                                         moth fluttery, sudden confetti
        folding black on white
        above the snow-flocked highway—
                                                                 safe to the wild shore.

        Below the indifferent grade
        the current endures.  In dim light
        its dark arms turn from themselves, deceptive
        as the familiar lover.
        I can almost hear water’s porcelain stampede
        against an iced log above rocks
        that bump gratefully inside the swirl
        or hold their own.

        Only the small ceremonies
        of comfort and soaring can cure.
        Unable to build roads for safety, I will
        each speeding log truck, each
        oil tanker back-skidding
        to stay in its narrow lane,
                                                     to grip what can’t be held.
        I wonder what job is worth
        these long winter drives, clinging to slick surfaces
        unpredictable as the metereology of the heart.

        Even though my eyes burn
        tired of the constant play of gray light
        across black ice, there is no time to rest.
                                                       I drive through
        this wilderness against the curve of pavement
        following the river and its restless strain.

   
Previously published in Poetry Magazine and by Wings Press in her book Scattered Risks

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by John Jeffire

    1995 NAIA national collegiate coach of the year

   
Coach Talks to the Wrestling Team the Day
Before the Eastside Match
   
   
Wrestling room air thick
as an amazonian afternoon
stinkheavy with years
of sweat that not even buckets of
uncut bleach can defeat.
I was still three pounds over
my weight class before practice
and I’m grateful
for more sprints back and forth
from padded wall to padded wall
wading through 90 degree fog
in two t-shirts and three sweatshirts
and two pairs of longjohns
under my sweatpants
sweating, sweating, ounce by ounce
closer to weight, but coach
calls us in and orders us
to take a knee.
His right ear a piece
of popcorn flesh glued
to the side of his head
his eyebrows rubbed off from
years of skullgrinding
his nose crooked as
a broken arm of lightning
his knees crisscrossed
by crazed scartissue worms
he walks like
a wheelchair is days away
but somehow he wrestles us like
a landmine eating handgrenades
exploding our bodies
across the mildewed mats.
We love him
like a father
especially those of us
who have no fathers.
He speaks.
We listen.
The coach from State, he begins,
is gonna be at the match tomorrow.
He’s recruiting Hendry from Eastside,
none a you dumbasses, but he’s
an old pal a mine.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
we hate Hendry
defending state champ who stole
Kraznicki’s girlfriend last summer
at our town’s Dairy Queen
none of us could ever beat him
but we can take Eastside as a team.
Now, any a you jokers
ever think about college?
Sweat drips down my nose
onto the rubber mat.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
none of us has thought of college.
LaDuke, who has failed Freshman English
twice and lives in the metal shop, though,
says, Yeah, I thought about it,
and even coach knows he’s lying.
Yeah?  Coach says. So what exactly
you want to study, LaDuke?
Sweat drips down his nose.
He thinks.
He answers,
I dunno, maybe buildin’ stuff.
Something like a smile
creases Coach’s scarred mouth.
We smile, waiting for the verdict.
Building stuff, huh? asks Coach
then he shows us that ragged row
of chipped crocodile teeth.
We laugh on cue
not really sure what is so funny.
Cut the crap, says Coach
and the mice and roaches in this decayed
corner of the school take cover.
What about you, Camel Jockey?
I am Camel Jockey.
I was still three pounds over
before practice and somewhere
in the frozen air above our town
21 pounds of me has been stolen
since season began in November.
I am sick of cutting weight
but I’m so close now
and tomorrow we can take Eastside.
You got some A’s, didn’t you? Coach asks.
True, I got some A’s but
my parents own a bar where
I cook Italian sausage sandwiches
and butter garlic bread in front
of a 700 degree oven after practice
still dressed in sweat clothes
trying to drain off those last few ounces
wishing I could just lick the grease
off the prep counter or sneak a few
slices of Genoa salami and not be overweight
but I’m ranked in the district
at 112 pounds and the team
needs the points
if we’re gonna take leagues in two weeks.
You’re smart enough, Camel, and you could be
tough enough with a few more ass whuppins,
says Coach, so whattaya think?
I can talk to the coach at State,
see what he thinks a you tomorrow.
I look over at LaDuke who
looks at Brophy who looks
at Washington the heavyweight . . .
sweat drips down my nose
and my mouth is coated in cotton
and if I’m lucky, really lucky
I only have another pound to lose
and maybe if we stop all this talk
about college and start running again
I can eat half an orange
and drink a cup of milk after work tonight
before drifting off to sleep.

_____

   
by Kimberly Dark

   
Contact

   
        In pairs, they fall together again and again,
        shoulder to shoulder, neck to neck,
        heads close, they take on each others weight
        with pleasure.

        It looks like pleasure, an intimate pleasure,
        an embrace—until the feet dig in and
        the choreographed tussle begins.
        It looks like pleasure
        and so it must be
        for what would hold them,
        hour after hour,
        in these forms of embrace,
        bodily pressure, contact—
        if not pleasure.

        The environment is daunting, after all.
        The grunts and shuffling feet,
        yells of coaches create a noise
        that even in its power
        cannot rise above the hot stench
        of bodies, struggling.
        A steamy-loud-funk escapes the room
        and they are all writhing in the midst of it—
        creating a steamy hot punk funk
        109-summer-degrees outside
        and inside, the steam rises from their bodies.

        This is how young men must touch each other—
        hug, hold one another’s bodies—
        without provoking disdain
        without fear of abuse
        without loss, loss, loss,
        loss of everything

        Summer wrestling camp,
        the south gym at Fresno State University
        is a giant room with hardwood floors
        big blue mats hauled in two days ago
        to cushion prancing feet and falls,
        to guard the flesh and bones of boy’s tumbles,
        shield knees from harm.

        The door between the sunny day
        and the stench of wrestlers
        seems an easily passable
        portal between worlds.
        The gym is dark and slightly cooler
        than the noon-time brightness
        and yet within each wrestler,
        a sun glows
        drenching his clothes and skin
        with sweat.

        At the call of the coaches they
        “BREAK! Give me 5 sit-ups!”
        Then they’re back at it again
        falling together, shoulder to shoulder,
        enacting the forms of contact
        common to the sport—
        the rituals of contact within
        the tightly controlled container
        of combat and propriety.
        Intimate propriety; their suns shine
        making the paint want to peel
        in the stench.
        They fall together again and again
        constrained by the form as they
        make vital, human contact.

_____

   
by John D. Berry

    martial artist, Berkeley CA

   
Contest
   
   
Stillness,
Before beginning,
Focus narrows,
To target,
Sounds diminish,
Without silence.
   
The movie runs,
In your head,
Which moves,
Counter moves,
How victory,
Will come.
   
Move,
No thought,
No mind,
Breathe,
The referee’s signal,
It begins.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea—
        Forgets her own locality—
        As I—toward Thee—

        She knows herself an incense small—
        Yet small—she sighs—if All—is All—
        How larger—be?

        The Ocean—smiles—at her Conceit—
        But she, forgetting Amphitrite—
        Pleads—”Me”?

                284

_____

_____

   
by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

   
Enceladus

   
        In the Black Country, from a little window,
        Before I slept, across the haggard wastes
        Of dust and ashes, I saw Titanic shafts
        Like shadowy columns of wan-hope arise
        To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths
        Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.
        Then, as night deepened, the blast-furnaces,
        Red smears upon the sulphurous blackness, turned
        All that sad region to a City of Dis,
        Where naked, sweating giants all night long
        Bowed their strong necks, melted flesh, blood and bone,
        To brim the dry ducts of the gods of gloom
        With terrible rivers, branches of living gold.

        O, like some tragic gesture of great souls
        In agony, those awful columns towered
        Against the clouds, that city of ash and slag
        Assumed the grandeur of some direr Thebes
        Arising to the death-chant of those gods,
        A dreadful Order climbing from the dark
        Of Chaos and Corruption, threatening to take
        Heaven with its vast slow storm.
                                                              I slept, and dreamed.
        And like the slow beats of some Titan heart
        Buried beneath immeasurable woes,
        The forging-hammers thudded through the dream:

        Huge on a fallen tree,
        Lost in the darkness of primeval woods,
        Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
        The naked giant, brooded all alone.
        Born of the lower earth, he knew not how,
        Born of the mire and clay, he knew not when,
        Brought forth in darkness, and he knew not why!

        Thus, like a wind, went by a thousand years.

        Anhungered, yet no comrade of the wolf,
        And cold, but with no power upon the sun,
        A master of this world that mastered him!

        Thus, like a cloud, went by a thousand years.

        Who chained this other giant in his heart
        That heaved and burned like Etna?  Heavily
        He bent his brows and wondered and was dumb.

        And, like one wave, a thousand years went by.

        He raised his matted head and scanned the stars.
        He stood erect!  He lifted his uncouth arms!
        With inarticulate sounds his uncouth lips
        Wrestled and strove—I am full-fed, and yet
        I hunger!
        Who set this fiercer famine in my maw?

        Can I eat moons, gorge on the Milky Way,
        Swill sunsets down, or sup the wash of the dawn
        Out of the rolling swine-troughs of the sea?
        Can I drink oceans, lie beneath the mountains,
        And nuzzle their heavy boulders like a cub
        Sucking the dark teats of the tigress?  Who,
        Who set this deeper hunger in my heart?
        And the dark forest echoed—Who?  Ah, who?

        “I hunger!”
        And the night-wind answered him,
        “Hunt, then, for food.”

        “I hunger!”
        And the sleek gorged lioness
        Drew nigh him, dripping freshly from the kill,
        Redder her lolling tongue, whiter her fangs,
        And gazed with ignorant eyes of golden flame.

        “I hunger!”
        Like a breaking sea his cry
        Swept through the night.  Against his swarthy knees
        She rubbed the red wet velvet of her ears
        With mellow thunders of unweeting bliss,
        Purring—Ah, seek, and you shall find.
        Ah, seek, and you shall slaughter, gorge, ah seek,
        Seek, seek, you shall feed full, ah seek, ah seek.

        Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
        Bewildered like a desert-pilgrim, saw
        A rosy City, opening in the clouds,
        The hunger-born mirage of his own heart,
        Far, far above the world, a home of gods,
        Where One, a goddess, veiled in the sleek waves
        Of her deep hair, yet glimmering golden through,
        Lifted, with radiant arms, ambrosial food
        For hunger such as this!  Up the dark hills,
        He rushed, a thunder-cloud,
        Urged by the famine of his heart.  He stood
        High on the topmost crags, he hailed the gods
        In thunder, and the clouds re-echoed it!

        He hailed the gods!
        And like a sea of thunder round their thrones
        Washing, a midnight sea, his earth-born voice
        Besieged the halls of heaven!  He hailed the gods!
        They laughed, he heard them laugh!
        With echo and re-echo, far and wide,
        A golden sea of mockery, they laughed!

        Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
        Laid hold upon the rosy Gates of Heaven,
        And shook them with gigantic sooty hands,
        Asking he knew not what, but not for alms;
        And the Gates, opened as in jest;
        And, like a sooty jest, he stumbled in.

        Round him the gods, the young and scornful gods,
        Clustered and laughed to mark the ravaged face,
        The brutal brows, the deep and dog-like eyes,
        The blunt black nails, and back with burdens bowed.
        And, when they laughed, he snarled with uncouth lips
        And made them laugh again.
                                                           “Whence comest thou?”
        He could not speak!
        How should he speak whose heart within him heaved
        And burned like Etna?  Through his mouth there came
        A sound of ice-bergs in a frozen sea
        Of tears, a sullen region of black ice
        Rending and breaking, very far away.
        They laughed!
        He stared at them, bewildered, and they laughed
        Again, “Whence comest thou?”

        He could not speak!
        But through his mouth a moan of midnight woods,
        Where wild beasts lay in wait to slaughter and gorge,
        A moan of forest-caverns where the wolf
        Brought forth her litter, a moan of the wild earth
        In travail with strange shapes of mire and clay,
        Creatures of clay, clay images of the gods,
        That hungered like the gods, the most high gods,
        But found no food, and perished like the beasts.

        And the gods laughed,—
        Art thou, then, such a god?  And, like a leaf
        Unfolding in dark woods, in his deep brain
        A sudden memory woke; and like an ape
        He nodded, and all heaven with laughter rocked,
        While Artemis cried out with scornful lips,—
        Perchance He is the Maker of you all!

        Then, piteously outstretching calloused hands,
        He sank upon his knees, his huge gnarled knees,
        And echoed, falteringly, with slow harsh tongue,—
        Perchance, perchance, the Maker of you all.

        They wept with laughter!  And Aphrodite, she,
        With keener mockery than white Artemis
        Who smiled aloof, drew nigh him unabashed
        In all her blinding beauty.  Carelessly,
        As o’er the brute brows of a stallèd ox
        Across that sooty muzzle and brawny breast,
        Contemptuously, she swept her golden hair
        In one deep wave, a many-millioned scourge
        Intolerable and beautiful as fire;
        Then turned and left him, reeling, gasping, dumb,
        While heaven re-echoed and re-echoed, See,
        Perchance, perchance, the Maker of us all!

        Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,
        Rose to his feet, and with one terrible cry
        “I hunger,” rushed upon the scornful gods
        And strove to seize and hold them with his hands,
        And still the laughter deepened as they rolled
        Their clouds around them, baffling him.  But once,
        Once with a shout, in his gigantic arms
        He crushed a slippery splendour on his breast
        And felt on his harsh skin the cool smooth peaks
        Of Aphrodite’s bosom.  One black hand
        Slid down the naked snow of her long side
        And bruised it where he held her.  Then, like snow
        Vanishing in a furnace, out of his arms
        The splendour suddenly melted, and a roll
        Of thunder split the dream, and headlong down
        He fell, from heaven to earth; while, overhead
        The young and scornful gods—he heard them laugh!—
        Toppled the crags down after him.  He lay
        Supine.  They plucked up Etna by the roots
        And buried him beneath it.  His broad breast
        Heaved, like that other giant in his heart,
        And through the crater burst his fiery breath,
        But could not burst his bonds.  And so he lay
        Breathing in agony thrice a thousand years.

        Then came a Voice, he knew not whence, “Arise,
        Enceladus!”  And from his heart a crag
        Fell, and one arm was free, and one thought free,
        And suddenly he awoke, and stood upright,
        Shaking the mountains from him like a dream;
        And the tremendous light and awful truth
        Smote, like the dawn, upon his blinded eyes,
        That out of his first wonder at the world,
        Out of his own heart’s deep humility,
        And simple worship, he had fashioned gods
        Of cloud, and heaven out of a hollow shell.
        And groping now no more in the empty space
        Outward, but inward in his own deep heart,
        He suddenly felt the secret gates of heaven
        Open, and from the infinite heavens of hope
        Inward, a voice, from the innermost courts of Love,
        Rang—Thou shall have none other gods but Me.

        Enceladus, the foul Enceladus,
        When the clear light out of that inward heaven
        Whose gates are only inward in the soul,
        Showed him that one true Kingdom, said,
                                                                     “I will stretch
        My hands out once again.  And, as the God
        That made me is the Heart within my heart,
        So shall my heart be to this dust and earth
        A god and a creator.  I will strive
        With mountains, fires and seas, wrestle and strive,
        Fashion and make, and that which I have made
        In anguish I shall love as God loves me.”

        In the Black Country, from a little window,
        Waking at dawn, I saw those giant Shafts
        —O great dark word out of our elder speech,
        Long since the poor man’s kingly heritage—
        The Shapings, the dim Sceptres of Creation,
        The Shafts like columns of wan-hope arise
        To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths
        Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.
        Then, as the dawn crimsoned, the sordid clouds,
        The puddling furnaces, the mounds of slag,
        The cinders, and the sand-beds and the rows
        Of wretched roofs, assumed a majesty
        Beyond all majesties of earth or air;
        Beauty beyond all beauty, as of a child
        In rags, upraised thro’ the still gold of heaven,
        With wasted arms and hungering eyes, to bring
        The armoured seraphim down upon their knees
        And teach eternal God humility;
        The solemn beauty of the unfulfilled
        Moving towards fulfilment on a height
        Beyond all heights; the dreadful beauty of hope;
        The naked wrestler struggling from the rock
        Under the sculptor’s chisel; the rough mass
        Of clay more glorious for the poor blind face
        And bosom that half emerge into the light,
        More glorious and august, even in defeat,
        Than that too cold dominion God foreswore
        To bear this passionate universal load,
        This Calvary of Creation, with mankind.

_____

   
by Andy Jones

   
First Dance

   
        Your new wife and her relatives,
        now your in-laws,
        had never seen you dance before the big day,
        and wondered how,
        with all this bulky, residual muscle,
        you knew how to move so well, so expressively.
        As your coach and mentor,
        I had been invited to help welcome you to adulthood,
        And I knew.

        First you and your partner start in a neutral position,
        facing each other,
        sizing each other up,
        neither one yet in control.
        Soon, if it’s a slow song,
        you may take a head and shoulder lead,
        so that you start ear to ear,
        and her head may drop to your chest,
        but ironically she has the advantage here,
        for this is her arena,
        so she is in command.

        When the music changes,
        when the pace quickens,
        and adrenaline can be called upon,
        there is a reversal.
        You feel uplifted, and centered, and calm.
        Now the hips come into play,
        and your hips are well-trained.
        you start hips down so as to create an angle,
        and then spin her so as to drive strong across her hips,
        and before she knows it,
        you have impressed her with a hip lock,
        followed by a hip heist and hip pop.
        Such dexterity and vigor!

        When the time is right,
        you pull her near,
        inside to your arms like a lock
        so that all of her is adjacent to all of you,
        and your staggered stance realigns her rhythm to yours.
        Now you dictate the action,
        and she circles to your trail leg.
        You are feeling it now, sensing satisfaction and victory.
        You step and slide,
        and then one step back, and then circle.
        Your every move had been practiced, horizontally,
        as I stood over you with a whistle.

        Your new bride, she loves it!
        She is walking her fingers forward!
        You are a flanker!
        You are a double top stretcher!
        Inspired, she kicks up her heel to her butt
        and eliminates all the daylight between the two of you.
        She hopes to keep up with your energy,
        sees you as so graceful and authoritative here,
        just as you always hoped to be on the mat.
        And you realize, as you try to keep your hip on top,
        that this moment here,
        a moment when you are so strong, flexible, and smooth,
        without a referee ever to stop you,
        this might be your absolute last moment of control.

_____

_____

   
a traditional ballad

   
A Gest of Robyn Hode

The Second Fytte (verses 134-143)

   
        He bare a launsgay in his honde,
            And a man ledde his male,
        And reden with a lyght songe
            Unto Bernysdale.

        But as he went at a brydge ther was a wrastelyng,
            And there taryed was he,
        And there was all the best yemen
            Of all the west countree.

        A full fayre game there was up set,
            A whyte bulle up i-pyght,
        A grete courser, with sadle and brydil,
            With golde burnyssht full bryght.

        A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge,
            A pype of wyne, in fay;
        What man that bereth hym best i-wys
            The pryce shall bere away.

        There was a yoman in that place,
            And best worthy was he,
        And for he was ferre and frembde bested,
            Slayne he shulde have be.

        The knight had ruthe of this yoman,
            In placë where that he stode;
        He sayde that yoman shulde have no harme,
            For love of Robyn Hode.

        The knyght presed in to the place,
            An hundreth folowed hym free,
        With bowes bent and arowes sharpe,
            For to shende that companye.

        They shulderd all and made hym rome,
            To wete what he wolde say;
        He took the yeman bi the hande,
            And gave hym al the play.

        He gave hym five marke for his wyne,
            There it lay on the molde,
        And bad it shulde be set a broche,
            Drynkë who so wolde.

        Thus longe taried this gentyll knyght,
            Tyll that play was done;
        So long abode Robyn fastinge
            Thre hourës after the none.

_____

   
by Jean Starr Untermeyer (1886-1970)

   
Growing Pains

   
        From the bloodless battle,
        From wrestling with memories—those athletic ghosts,
        From an aching reach for Beauty,
        Speech has burst forth.
        Not for Art’s sake,
        But to rid me of an ancient sorrow—
        Not mine alone and yet so wholly mine.
        I have left no songs for an idle lute,
        No pretty tunes of coddled ills,
        But the bare chart of my growing pains.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        How dare the robins sing,
             When men and women hear
        Who since they went to their account
              Have settled with the year!—
        Paid all that life had earned
              In one consummate bill,
        And now, what life or death can do
              Is immaterial.
        Insulting is the sun
              To him whose mortal light
        Beguiled of immortality
              Bequeaths him to the night.
        Extinct be every hum
              In deference to him
        Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
              At daybreak overcome!

                1724

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        I think the Hemlock likes to stand
        Upon a Marge of Snow—
        It suits his own Austerity—
        And satisfies an awe

        That men, must slake in Wilderness—
        And in the Desert—cloy—
        An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—
        Lapland’s—necessity—

        The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—
        The Gnash of Northern winds
        Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
        His best Norwegian Wines—

        To satin Races—he is nought—
        But Children on the Don,
        Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
        And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.

                525

_____

   
from a hospital bed

   
to Robert Thomas Hamilton Bruce

   
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

   
Invictus

   
        Out of the night that covers me,
              Black as the pit from pole to pole,
        I thank whatever gods may be
              For my unconquerable soul.

        In the fell clutch of circumstance
              I have not winced nor cried aloud.
        Under the bludgeonings of chance
              My head is bloody, but unbowed.

        Beyond this place of wrath and tears
              Looms but the horror of the shade,
        And yet the menace of the years
              Finds and shall find me unafraid.

        It matters not how strait the gate,
              How charged with punishments the scroll,
        I am the master of my fate:
              I am the captain of my soul.

_____

   
by Rus Bowden

        a Dracut High School and Bridgewater State College wrestling dad

   
Jacob the Leg Puller

   
        It was late.  With the tribute to his brother
        being herded on its way,
        Jacob, exhausted, decided to stay at camp.

        Unable to sleep, a bit later he rose, took his
        two wives, two maids, eleven children
        and all that he owned, and escorted them

        across the shallow of the rivulet that rises
        and flows:  the Jaboc River.
        With family and belongings well on ahead,

        Jacob returned to camp to be by himself.
        This man appeared and they
        wrestled all night until the twilight of morning.

        When the man realized that he could not win,
        he wrenched Jacob’s hip
        at the socket, popping it out of joint.

        The match continued.
        The man said:  “Let go, morning is here.”
        Jacob replied:  “I won’t let you go unless

        “you give me the award.”
        His opponent said:  “What is your name?”
        “Jacob,” came the reply.  The man spoke:

        “Your name is no longer Jacob the leg puller,
        but Israel the god wrestler.
        You have wrestled divinity as well as humanity

        “and you are the winner.”
        Jacob asked him, “What is your name?”
        He said, “Never mind my name,” and bowed and left.

        Jacob christened that place “Peni-el” saying,
        “Face the divine and live.”
        He limped out of Penuel.  The sun was rising.

_____

by John S. Taylor in 1841

   
Jacob Wrestling with the Angel

   
        Now, by that touch, Mysterious man! I know
        Thy nature’s more than human!—Let thee go!
        Not till thou bless me.  If, through all the night,
        My daring, struggling limbs increas’d in might;
        If thou thy strength attempered e’en to mine,
        If thus resisting I o’ermastered thine;
        Then wilt thou too, my daring speech approve,
        For all thy wrestling was but tender love!
        My name is Jacob—thou hast made me bold,
        Thine arms that have repell’d me, must enfold!
        Thou shalt, Oh Wondrous Stranger! e’er we part—
        Stamp thine eternal blessing on my heart!

        Thy name no more is Jacob!  Thou hast seen
        By faith’s keen vision, what thy trials mean!
        Thy name is Israel!  Knighted Prince of God!
        For thou with him the wrestling ring hast trod!
        Nay–cease!  Ask not for my peculiar name,
        Enough to know ’twill put thy foes to shame:
        Take this white stone—’tis deeply graven there,
        With thine, a token of prevailing prayer!
        Forth to thy work—thy darkest dangers brave,
        My name goes with thee, and ’tis strong to save!

   
Previously published in Jacob wrestling with the angel [sermons]

_____

_____

by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

   
The Lady of the Lake

Canto Fifth (The Combat)

   
        XXIII.

        Now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand,
        The manly wrestlers take their stand.
        Two o’er the rest superior rose,
        And proud demanded mightier foes,—
        Nor called in vain, for Douglas came.—
        For life is Hugh of Larbert lame;
        Scarce better John of Alloa’s fare,
        Whom senseless home his comrades bare.
        Prize of the wrestling match, the King
        To Douglas gave a golden ring,
        While coldly glanced his eye of blue,
        As frozen drop of wintry dew.
        Douglas would speak, but in his breast
        His struggling soul his words suppressed;
        Indignant then he turned him where
        Their arms the brawny yeomen bare,
        To hurl the massive bar in air.
        When each his utmost strength had shown,
        The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone
        From its deep bed, then heaved it high,
        And sent the fragment through the sky
        A rood beyond the farthest mark;
        And still in Stirling’s royal park,
        The gray-haired sires, who know the past,
        To strangers point the Douglas cast,
        And moralize on the decay
        Of Scottish strength in modern day.

_____

   
by Steve Parker

    martial artist and sometime wrestler

   
Lights fall from the Old Man of the Sea

   
        we hold until I am exhausted

        he is a trickling thing of sand
        a scintilla that drains back into the beach

        a shock of trees
        released by strong winds
        he is a fish, a slither
        an eel that flits away
        then has me pinned

        he is all around me
        he clenches, shoves my face
        towards his
        buried down there
        beneath our grinding feet
        iron-eyed our faces

        stare it out underground
        through lock and tremor
        we are two seismic prayers
        to a god divided

        he is a lion he is my mother he is the flicker of songbirds falling
        as black snow in early evening my fingers are wings are poems
        within his smoke we fold back to embrace
        count five sudden things of magic
        stamp and hold tight

        lion mother phantom
        my lost brother
        whistles hard in the waves

        old father in the fallen leaves offshore

        we walk into the sea
        each carrying the other
        light as children who cannot return
        rise only as the tide
        sends up her drowned lanterns

        each with his heart of red sand
        catching, holding

        our breath beyond reach

_____

   
by G.C. Smith

   
Lightweight

   
        At two hundred and twenty today
        this unHogan Hulk knew another time
        way back in the way back when
        he wrestled at a paltry ninety-eight

        Tough monkey that he was at fourteen
        he practiced hard each and every day
        and once a week eliminated all comers
        except that damn hardened skinny senior

        He never made it to interschool competition
        the skinny bastard senior saw to that
        but, still, he got a lot from trying
        before he switched off to other things

        Looking back some fifty seven years
        it’s nigh impossible to recollect
        that wiry freckled fourteen year old
        taking on all comers at a lightweight ninety-eight

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        A little East of Jordan,
        Evangelists record,
        A Gymnast and an Angel
        Did wrestle long and hard—

        Till morning touching mountain—
        And Jacob, waxing strong,
        The Angel begged permission
        To Breakfast—to return—

        Not so, said cunning Jacob!
        “I will not let thee go
        Except thou bless me”—Stranger!
        The which acceded to—

        Light swung the silver fleeces
        “Peniel” Hills beyond,
        And the bewildered Gymnast
        Found he had worsted God!

                59

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Longing is like the Seed
        That wrestles in the Ground,
        Believing if it intercede
        It shall at length be found.

        The Hour, and the Clime—
        Each Circumstance unknown,
        What Constancy must be achieved
        Before it see the Sun!

                1255

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Musicians wrestle everywhere—
        All day—among the crowded air
              I hear the silver strife—
        And—walking—long before the morn—
        Such transport breaks upon the town
              I think it that “New Life”!

        If is not Bird—it has no nest—
        Nor “Band”—in brass and scarlet—drest—
              Nor Tamborin—nor Man—
        It is not Hymn from pulpit read—
        The “Morning Stars” the Treble led
              On Time’s first Afternoon!

        Some—say—it is “the Spheres”—at play!
        Some say that bright Majority
              Of vanished Dames—and Men!
        Some—think it service in the place
        Where we—with late—celestial face—
              Please God—shall Ascertain!

                157

_____

_____

   
by Steve Meador

    Defiance OH High School and Defiance College wrestler, 1969-1974

   
Muster

   
        The prairie meets the mountains at a place
        where the journey ends for the meek or weak.
        Here, cougar cunning versus buffalo strength
        versus diamondback lightning, and survival
        is measured in the ability to circle and strike,
        grip and twist, lunge and sprawl, stand or fall.
        It’s a lonely place where a man crawls inward,
        communes with a creature that will lead or carry
        him to the peak.  The only sounds are a chinook
        gathering strength as it blows from the fringes,
        sink it Sink it Sink It Sink IT SINK IT!
        On your toes.  Drive Drive DRIVEDRIVEDRIVE!
        and a clap of thunder that slaps against the hardpan.

_____

   
by Rane Arroyo

   
My Wrestler

   
        My ex-lover was a wrestler,
        liked the strain of power against
        the rumors:  two men.  There was
        a gain in him showing me the basic
        positions and me only pinning him
        once.  Maybe he let me.  The girls
        wanted him, wanted to haunt him,
        but he’d kiss me in the gym and
        no one dared to mess with him,
        the message clear:  in America,
        we have free will.  I think of
        Whitman’s brief reference to
        shirtless wrestlers, but closer
        to home, my lover would go
        to his opponent and there was
        an art to his rage.  And I felt like
        the lover in The Great White Hope:
        all sidelines, unsure how this became
        my life, that I was courageous too,
        in my own way, as I screamed,
        flip him now!  Nothing like having
        to fail in front of your boyfriend when
        the world hated us.  The future will
        not understand how important that
        he and I wrestled angels with moral
        messages because we made each
        other pure.  He’d kissed me to piss off
        people and I kissed him back because
        he was sweaty, tired, and proud of
        me for being proud of him.  He had
        never lost a match, but then he lost me.

_____

   
by Don Schaeffer

   
Passion Fruits

   
        While others
        built with wood
        I was making toys of cardboard tubes
        and paper clips,

        blonde shickza
        taking me to her bedroom
        and making me late
        for fourth period math class,

        and teacher thinking I went
        to the devil,
        wrestling match adventure,
        the best experiences

        were in the games.
        When the others were
        risking everything,
        close to death

        in the throws of passion,
        I didn’t dare
        go after
        the sweetest fruits.

   
Previously seen at Don Schaeffer’s Poems

_____

   
by Judy Swann

    an Ithaca High School wrestling mom

   
Pin

   
        I am fourteen years old
        muscles held together with skin and grit
        goaty, an ephebe, tufty hair above my lip
        for one eighth of one inch the red slow twitch
        of blood pricks my lats in a thousand points
        and I my body, its dozen senses, am my body
        upright levator scapulae
        sucking the muscles of my tongue
        and measuring you
        brachioradialis
        plectrum—
        I am hundreds of muscles.

        My eyes are muscles that see
        you shoot before your breath burns
        across my lynx ears.
        I am on you, nociceptor, know me.

        Lacrimae, lacrimae I press you back.
        I am all muscle and you
        are finished.

        Ref slaps the mat.

_____

   
by Judy Swann

    an Ithaca High School wrestling mom

   
Pinned

   
        Its medal is the oldest trophy
        awarded in Western athletics.
        Its communion attracts few females.
        Still it’s not like joining the Marines,
        not like the feuds of pushtunwali
        where a man seals clan triumph
        by drinking the guy’s blood.
        But it does man you up
        and despite its claim to being a team
        sport, it is not.
        The ferrety mass of your opponent
        the slug of his sweat on your throat
        that last inch
        is you losing, not your yelling coach or
        the guy next weight up, it’s all you
        when you lose.

_____

_____

   
for Eva

   
by Susie DeFord

   
Powerboat Pit Bull

   
        Cartoon paws spread web-wide, wiggle
        a little two-step upon arrival.  A brindle-
        brown wild tigress, snakeskin sheen,
        slithering along the walls of Brooklyn

                  buildings.  Nosing my knees, knocking
                  legs out beneath or hammerhead sharking
                  shins shiny amethyst wine.  Street thugs
                  saunter and say, “Hey, nice Pit.”  Tail

        between legs, Cowardly Lion, eyes wide,
        ears perked, city construction sounds
        and strangers scary.  You powerboat-pull
        me, pavement water-skier, into Lucy’s lair.

                  She’s your best girl, block buddy, partner
        in grime.  You rocket launch upstairs amidst
                  laughing doorman Rudolpho’s stares, drag
        me tripping upwards along.  Release the beast,
                  Lucy’s out, it’s on!  Attempts to extinguish

        exuberance, but you’re gone.  You pounce,
                  pitching paws, and prancing like a boxer.
        I’m the gong, match marker, stopper, clocker.

        Lucy flings into the ring with a facebuster,

                            your muscles bulge a moonsault.  Pause

                  downward  dog, then in again Banana Split

                            and Peekout scouting your next move.  Gong

        song, Luchadoras leap into the elevator,

        endorphins emanating, meek from misbehaving,
        both sit solemnly, silly silent grins, bout breathless.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
        Her unintending Eyes—
        Took her own Heart, including ours,
        By innocent Surprise—

        The wrestle in her simple Throat
        To hold the feeling down
        That vanquished her—defeated Feat—
        Was Fervor’s sudden Crown—

                1426

_____

   
by Drax Ireland

   
from the Funeral Games in Honour of Patroclus, after Homer, The Iliad, Book XXIII

   
The Prizegiving

   
        ‘Noëmon friend of Antilochos
        lead the mare away’
        as Menelaus himself took the glittering cauldron.
        Fourth, as driven, Meriones carried off the two talents’ weight of gold.
        Only the two handed jar was left.
        Achilles carried it through the Argives to Nestor,

        standing there he spoke;—

        ‘Elder, in memory of Patrokulus, a treasure for you to lay away,
        He is gone from the Argives for evermore
        this prize mine to give for the giving
        for you will not fight with fists or wrestle with limbs
        nor stand with the spear throwers
        nor race fleet footed
        as age claims her due’

        Speaking thus he placed it in Nestor’s hands
        who answered with joy

        ‘Yes youth you speak truth
        my limbs betray me as do my feet
        my friend
        my arms swing ponderous
        I wish for youth and strength within me
        as it was with Amaryngkeus and the Epeians at Bouprasion,
        the sons kings’ funeral games
        I was alone among the Epeians
        and the Pylians and the brave Aitolians
        Klytomedes, the son of Enops fell to my fists
        Angkaios of Pleuron I wrestled to the floor
        I outran the fast Iphiklos
        Polydoros and Phyleus watched my spear fly away
        only the chariot of the sons of Aktor defeated me
        crowd crossing champions chasing the prize
        the twins of Aktor, as one held the reins loose the other lashed the horses

        But this all in the past . . .

        An Elder must make way for youth
        I embrace my aging, an old hero among the young
        Enough of me, more to the contest in honour of your friend
        I take this prize with joy and a happy heart
        to be remembered, a kindness,
        I am not forgotten the honour due to me among the Achaians
        for this may the gods grant you great happiness.’

_____

   
for Adam

   
by David Hernandez

   
Proof

   
        Once he wrestled a bear, he said,
        in a bar off-campus with eyes
        glossy from lager, he wrestled
        a bear.  Claws and all, black fur
        and the salmon of its muscles
        leaping under the black fur.
        Wrestled and won, he said,
        the bear pinned and snorting,
        pinned and one hundred pounds
        heavier, with claws, with claws
        and teeth, the electric blue current
        of animal instinct.  I was gullible
        once, under kindergarten lights
        with glitter and paste, building
        a galaxy.  A boy stole my stars
        once, a bigger boy I wrestled
        under the night of blackboard.
        Wrestled and lost, pinned
        and weeping with my back
        to the carpet, with the fireflies
        of glitter dazzling on my skin.
        To the man who said he wrestled
        a bear, wrestled and won, I said,
        You’re full of bear shit.  But
        a scar is proof and so began
        the slow striptease of a pant leg
        rolled to his knee.  There, he said.
        And his story sparkled on his flesh.

   
Previously published in Gulf Coast, Summer/Fall 2006

_____

   
by Muhammad Afzal Mirza and Muhammad Amir Sheikh

   
from the biographies of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him

   
Rakana vs. Prophet Muhammad

   
        While preaching in Mecca,
        Prophet Muhammad encountered
        Rakana, a famous wrestler there.
        A discussion started

        and the wrestler challenged him saying,
        “If you defeat me in a wrestling match,
        I will accept Islam.”
        They wrestled and the Prophet defeated him.

        Being a good wrestler, Rakana could not
        accept this defeat and challenged
        for another match, losing a second time.
        Rakana requested a third match.

        After this defeat, he honored
        his word and accepted Islam.

_____

   
by Lori Desrosiers

   
Real Wrestling

   
        Weighed in, lots drawn,
        smelling of puke and sweat,
        chewing on black mouth guards,
        the one in the yellow shorts
        vs. the one in the blue shorts.
        Referee in black socks
        and black plimsolls
        blows his whistle.
        Men fall together, splat!
        Tangle of legs, arms,
        swish of dripping sweat,
        meat against mat,
        a mass of bone and tendons,
        faces contorted in pain.
        The mat chairman amasses points
        judge verifies the fall, the touche.
        The referee calls it:
        Yellow shorts, black and blue,
        the victor by nine points.

_____

_____

   
by Jeff Kass

    White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
    WPHS coach, 1988-90

   
Reversal

   
        You can’t execute a successful Granby Roll
        if you can’t believe you can be a wrecking ball
        and bounce

        Pop your hips toward the sky
        make your body an A-frame
        post your weight on your left hand

        Ready yourself for your quake
        hop your left foot in front
        of your right, now blow
        your house from its moorings,
        duck your head and make your
        break violent

        The Granby Roll will not work
        if you don’t have faith in your
        own momentum, you cannot quit
        halfway, your naked shoulders
        exposed to the mat’s cold mercy

        You must believe you can ravage
        your own symmetry and survive

        Now try it from standing up
        you are human, tall on two legs
        and you can dive and spin
        from upright too

        It’s hop, hop, go

        Don’t let your fear of falling
        failure, falling, failure, don’t
        let fear of falling fail you,
        failure fall you, dive,
        dive—trust your dive,
        and roll.

   
Previously published in The Ann Arbor Chronicle

_____

   
by Jane M’Lean (no bio)

   
Slogan

   
        Don’t prate about what is your right,
        But bare your fists and show your might;
        Life is another man to fight
        Catch as catch can.

        Don’t talk of Life as scurvy Fate,
        Who gave you favors just too late,
        Or Luck who threw you smiles for bait
        Before he ran.

        Don’t whine and wish that you were dead,
        But wrestle for your daily bread,
        And afterward let it be said
        “He was a man.”

   
found in the book It Can Be Done: Poems of Inspiration collected by Joseph Morris and St. Clair Adams

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Some we see no more, Tenements of Wonder
        Occupy to us though perhaps to them
        Simpler are the Days than the Supposition
        Leave us to presume

        That oblique Belief which we call Conjecture
        Grapples with a Theme stubborn as Sublime
        Able as the Dust to equip its feature
        Adequate as Drums
        To enlist the Tomb.

                1221

_____

   
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

   
The Song of Hiawatha

Chapter 5, Hiawatha’s Fasting

   
        You shall hear how Hiawatha
        Prayed and fasted in the forest,
        Not for greater skill in hunting,
        Not for greater craft in fishing,
        Not for triumphs in the battle,
        And renown among the warriors,
        But for profit of the people,
        For advantage of the nations.

        First he built a lodge for fasting,
        Built a wigwam in the forest,
        By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
        In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time,
        In the Moon of Leaves he built it,
        And, with dreams and visions many,
        Seven whole days and nights he fasted.

        On the first day of his fasting
        Through the leafy woods he wandered;
        Saw the deer start from the thicket,
        Saw the rabbit in his burrow,
        Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming,
        Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
        Rattling in his hoard of acorns,
        Saw the pigeon, the Omeme,
        Building nests among the pinetrees,
        And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa,
        Flying to the fen-lands northward,
        Whirring, wailing far above him.
        “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding,
        “Must our lives depend on these things?”

        On the next day of his fasting
        By the river’s brink he wandered,
        Through the Muskoday, the meadow,
        Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee,
        Saw the blueberry, Meenahga,
        And the strawberry, Odahmin,
        And the gooseberry, Shahbomin,
        And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut,
        Trailing o’er the alder-branches,
        Filling all the air with fragrance!
        “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding,
        “Must our lives depend on these things?”

        On the third day of his fasting
        By the lake he sat and pondered,
        By the still, transparent water;
        Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping,
        Scattering drops like beads of wampum,
        Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa,
        Like a sunbeam in the water,
        Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
        And the herring, Okahahwis,
        And the Shawgashee, the crawfish!
        “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding,
        “Must our lives depend on these things?”

        On the fourth day of his fasting
        In his lodge he lay exhausted;
        From his couch of leaves and branches
        Gazing with half-open eyelids,
        Full of shadowy dreams and visions,
        On the dizzy, swimming landscape,
        On the gleaming of the water,
        On the splendor of the sunset.

        And he saw a youth approaching,
        Dressed in garments green and yellow,
        Coming through the purple twilight,
        Through the splendor of the sunset;
        Plumes of green bent o’er his forehead,
        And his hair was soft and golden.

        Standing at the open doorway,
        Long he looked at Hiawatha,
        Looked with pity and compassion
        On his wasted form and features,
        And, in accents like the sighing
        Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops,
        Said he, “O my Hiawatha!
        All your prayers are heard in heaven,
        For you pray not like the others;
        Not for greater skill in hunting,
        Not for greater craft in fishing,
        Not for triumph in the battle,
        Nor renown among the warriors,
        But for profit of the people,
        For advantage of the nations.

        “From the Master of Life descending,
        I, the friend of man, Mondamin,
        Come to warn you and instruct you,
        How by struggle and by labor
        You shall gain what you have prayed for.
        Rise up from your bed of branches,
        Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!”

        Faint with famine, Hiawatha
        Started from his bed of branches,
        From the twilight of his wigwam
        Forth into the flush of sunset
        Came, and wrestled with Mondamin;
        At his touch he felt new courage
        Throbbing in his brain and bosom,
        Felt new life and hope and vigor
        Run through every nerve and fibre.

        So they wrestled there together
        In the glory of the sunset,
        And the more they strove and struggled,
        Stronger still grew Hiawatha;
        Till the darkness fell around them,
        And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
        From her nest among the pine-trees,
        Gave a cry of lamentation,
        Gave a scream of pain and famine.

        “‘T is enough!” then said Mondamin,
        Smiling upon Hiawatha,
        “But tomorrow, when the sun sets,
        I will come again to try you.”
        And he vanished, and was seen not;
        Whether sinking as the rain sinks,
        Whether rising as the mists rise,
        Hiawatha saw not, knew not,
        Only saw that he had vanished,
        Leaving him alone and fainting,
        With the misty lake below him,
        And the reeling stars above him.

        On the morrow and the next day,
        When the sun through heaven descending,
        Like a red and burning cinder
        From the hearth of the Great Spirit,
        Fell into the western waters,
        Came Mondamin for the trial,
        For the strife with Hiawatha;
        Came as silent as the dew comes,
        From the empty air appearing,
        Into empty air returning,
        Taking shape when earth it touches,
        But invisible to all men
        In its coming and its going.

        Thrice they wrestled there together
        In the glory of the sunset,
        Till the darkness fell around them,
        Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
        From her nest among the pine-trees,
        Uttered her loud cry of famine,
        And Mondamin paused to listen.

        Tall and beautiful he stood there,
        In his garments green and yellow;
        To and fro his plumes above him,
        Waved and nodded with his breathing,
        And the sweat of the encounter
        Stood like drops of dew upon him.

        And he cried, “O Hiawatha!
        Bravely have you wrestled with me,
        Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me,
        And the Master of Life, who sees us,
        He will give to you the triumph!”

        Then he smiled, and said:  “To-morrow
        Is the last day of your conflict,
        Is the last day of your fasting.
        You will conquer and o’ercome me;
        Make a bed for me to lie in,
        Where the rain may fall upon me,
        Where the sun may come and warm me;
        Strip these garments, green and yellow,
        Strip this nodding plumage from me,
        Lay me in the earth, and make it
        Soft and loose and light above me.

        “Let no hand disturb my slumber,
        Let no weed nor worm molest me,
        Let not Kahgahgee, the raven,
        Come to haunt me and molest me,
        Only come yourself to watch me,
        Till I wake, and start, and quicken,
        Till I leap into the sunshine”

        And thus saying, he departed;
        Peacefully slept Hiawatha,
        But he heard the Wawonaissa,
        Heard the whippoorwill complaining,
        Perched upon his lonely wigwam;
        Heard the rushing Sebowisha,
        Heard the rivulet rippling near him,
        Talking to the darksome forest;
        Heard the sighing of the branches,
        As they lifted and subsided
        At the passing of the night-wind,
        Heard them, as one hears in slumber
        Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers:
        Peacefully slept Hiawatha.

        On the morrow came Nokomis,
        On the seventh day of his fasting,
        Came with food for Hiawatha,
        Came imploring and bewailing,
        Lest his hunger should o’ercome him,
        Lest his fasting should be fatal.

        But he tasted not, and touched not,
        Only said to her, “Nokomis,
        Wait until the sun is setting,
        Till the darkness falls around us,
        Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
        Crying from the desolate marshes,
        Tells us that the day is ended.”

        Homeward weeping went Nokomis,
        Sorrowing for her Hiawatha,
        Fearing lest his strength should fail him,
        Lest his fasting should be fatal.
        He meanwhile sat weary waiting
        For the coming of Mondamin,
        Till the shadows, pointing eastward,
        Lengthened over field and forest,
        Till the sun dropped from the heaven,
        Floating on the waters westward,
        As a red leaf in the Autumn
        Falls and floats upon the water,
        Falls and sinks into its bosom.

        And behold! the young Mondamin,
        With his soft and shining tresses,
        With his garments green and yellow,
        With his long and glossy plumage,
        Stood and beckoned at the doorway.
        And as one in slumber walking,
        Pale and haggard, but undaunted,
        From the wigwam Hiawatha
        Came and wrestled with Mondamin.

        Round about him spun the landscape,
        Sky and forest reeled together,
        And his strong heart leaped within him,
        As the sturgeon leaps and struggles
        In a net to break its meshes.
        Like a ring of fire around him
        Blazed and flared the red horizon,
        And a hundred suns seemed looking
        At the combat of the wrestlers.

        Suddenly upon the greensward
        All alone stood Hiawatha,
        Panting with his wild exertion,
        Palpitating with the struggle;
        And before him breathless, lifeless,
        Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled,
        Plumage torn, and garments tattered,
        Dead he lay there in the sunset.

        And victorious Hiawatha
        Made the grave as he commanded,
        Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
        Stripped his tattered plumage from him,
        Laid him in the earth, and made it
        Soft and loose and light above him;
        And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
        From the melancholy moorlands,
        Gave a cry of lamentation,
        Gave a cry of pain and anguish!

        Homeward then went Hiawatha
        To the lodge of old Nokomis,
        And the seven days of his fasting
        Were accomplished and completed.
        But the place was not forgotten
        Where he wrestled with Mondamin;
        Nor forgotten nor neglected
        Was the grave where lay Mondamin,
        Sleeping in the rain and sunshine,
        Where his scattered plumes and garments
        Faded in the rain and sunshine.

        Day by day did Hiawatha
        Go to wait and watch beside it;
        Kept the dark mould soft above it,
        Kept it clean from weeds and insects,
        Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings,
        Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.

        Till at length a small green feather
        From the earth shot slowly upward,
        Then another and another,
        And before the Summer ended
        Stood the maize in all its beauty,
        With its shining robes about it,
        And its long, soft, yellow tresses;
        And in rapture Hiawatha
        Cried aloud, “It is Mondamin!
        Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!”

        Then he called to old Nokomis
        And Iagoo, the great boaster,
        Showed them where the maize was growing,
        Told them of his wondrous vision,
        Of his wrestling and his triumph,
        Of this new gift to the nations,
        Which should be their food forever.

        And still later, when the Autumn
        Changed the long, green leaves to yellow,
        And the soft and juicy kernels
        Grew like wampum hard and yellow,
        Then the ripened ears he gathered,
        Stripped the withered husks from off them,
        As he once had stripped the wrestler,
        Gave the first Feast of Mondamin,
        And made known unto the people
        This new gift of the Great Spirit.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Still own thee—still thou art
        What surgeons call alive—
        Though slipping—slipping I perceive
        To thy reportless Grave—

        Which question shall I clutch—
        What answer wrest from thee
        Before thou dost exude away
        In the recallless sea?

                1633

_____

   
by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

   
Sumo

   
        Five crabs apiece, dinner after,
        then the obligatory zzzzzzzzz’s.
        Fat chance blubber

        can work itself off with this
        routine.  They squat on the dohyo
        inside “the snake’s eye”

        the Shinto priest has blessed:
        550 pounds of meat.  Tough
        disciplined blimps

        with hearts like venous seeds.
        The gods themselves may touch
        down among them tonight.

_____

_____

   
by Jeff Kass

    White Plains High and Yale University wrestler, 1980-85
    WPHS coach, 1988-90

   
Takedown

   
        When you step to the mat
        you will face an opponent
        the same weight

        You will hurt him
        or he will hurt you

        At the referee’s whistle
        you will fight from neutral

        Shuffle step, shuffle step, circle, circle, feint

        Let your legs be lampposts with panther feet

        You are a surfer on soil
        solid and liquid and solid
        again and in between teetering a clean
        green line on a carpenter’s level

        Circle, shuffle, circle, shuffle

        Knees bent, get low, lower, head up
        you are rolling shoulder grunt
        and crackling bolt from skull
        to toe, you cannot be thrown,
        but you will throw

        This is how you take a wrestler down
        you circle and feint, shuffle and feint
        grip and twist, the rhythm of your body
        a sacred hiss and you must dizzy his

        You must live for the split-second
        bulwark crack—you are one
        juggernaut knife and you will
        not be denied, you will penetrate
        low and drive

        you are a merciless thief
        and you will steal
        his ground

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        ‘Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
        So over Horror, it half Captivates—
        The Soul stares after it, secure—
        A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—

        To scan a Ghost, is faint—
        But grappling, conquers it—
        How easy, Torment, now—
        Suspense kept sawing so—

        The Truth, is Bald, and Cold—
        But that will hold—
        If any are not sure—
        We show them—prayer—
        But we, who know,
        Stop hoping, now—

        Looking at Death, is Dying—
        Just let go the Breath—
        And not the pillow at your Cheek
        So Slumbereth—

        Others, Can wrestle—
        Yours, is done—
        And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
        It sets the Fright at liberty—
        And Terror’s free—
        Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

                281

_____

   
by Edmund Waller (1606-87)

   
To Zelinda

   
        Fairest piece of well-form’d earth!
        Urge not thus your haughty birth;
        The power which you have o’er us lies
        Not in your race, but in your eyes.
        ‘None but a prince!’—Alas! that voice
        Confines you to a narrow choice.
        Should you no honey vow to taste,
        But what the master-bees have placed
        In compass of their cells, how small
        A portion to your share would fall!
        Nor all appear, among those few,
        Worthy the stock from whence they grew.
        The sap which at the root is bred
        In trees, through all the boughs is spread;
        But virtues which in parents shine,
        Make not like progress through the line.
        ‘Tis not from whom, but where, we live;
        The place does oft those graces give.
        Great Julius, on the mountains bred,
        A flock perhaps, or herd, had led.
        He that the world subdued, had been
        But the best wrestler on the green.
        ‘Tis art and knowledge which draw forth
        The hidden seeds of native worth;
        They blow those sparks, and make them rise
        Into such flames as touch the skies.
        To the old heroes hence was given
        A pedigree which reached to heaven;
        Of mortal seed they were not held,
        Which other mortals so excell’d.
        And beauty, too, in such excess
        As yours, Zelinda! claims no less.
        Smile but on me, and you shall scorn,
        Henceforth, to be of princes born.
        I can describe, the shady grove
        Where your loved mother slept with Jove;
        And yet excuse the faultless dame,
        Caught with her spouse’s shape and name.
        Thy matchless form will credit bring
        To all the wonders I shall sing.

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        ‘Twas Crisis—All the length had passed—
        That dull—benumbing time
        There is in Fever or Event—
        And now the Chance had come—

        The instant holding in its claw
        The privilege to live
        Or warrant to report the Soul
        The other side the Grave.

        The Muscles grappled as with leads
        That would not let the Will—
        The Spirit shook the Adamant—
        But could not make it feel.

        The Second poised—debated—shot—
        Another had begun—
        And simultaneously, a Soul
        Escaped the House unseen—

                948

_____

   
by Emily Dickinson (1830-86)

   
        Two swimmers wrestled on the spar—
        Until the morning sun—
        When One—turned smiling to the land—
        Oh God! the Other One!

        The stray ships—passing—
        Spied a face—
        Upon the waters borne—
        With eyes in death—still begging raised—
        And hands—beseeching—thrown!

                201

_____

by Charles Wesley (1707-1788)

   
Wrestling Jacob

   
        Come, O, thou Traveller unknown,
             Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
        My company before is gone,
             And I am left alone with thee:
        With thee all night I mean to stay,
        And wrestle till the break of day.

        I need not tell thee who I am,
             My sin and misery declare:
        Thyself hast call’d me by my name;
             Look on thy hands and read it there;
        But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
        Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

        In vain thou strugglest to get free,
             I never will unloose my hold:
        Art thou the Man that died for me?
             The secret of thy love unfold:
        Wrestling, I will not let thee go,
        Till I thy name, thy nature know.

        Wilt thou not yet to me reveal
             thy new, unutterable name?
        Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell;
             To know it now resolv’d I am:
        Wrestling I will not let thee go,
        Till I thy name, thy nature know.

        What though my shrinking flesh complain,
             And murmur to contend so long?
        I rise superior to my pain;
             When I am weak then am I strong:
        And when my all of strength shall fail,
        I shall with the God-man prevail.

        Yield to me now for I am weak;
             But confident in self-despair!
        Speak to my heart, in blessings speak;
             Be conquer’d by my instant prayer;
        Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
        And tell me if thy name be Love.

        ‘Tis Love! ’tis Love!  Thou died’st for me;
             I hear thy whisper in my heart;
        The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
             Pure, universal Love thou art:
        To me, to all, thy bowels move,
        Thy nature and thy name is Love.

        My prayer hath power with God; the grace
             Unspeakable I now receive;
        Through faith I see thee face to face;
             I see thee face to face, and live:
        In vain I have not wept and strove;
        Thy nature and thy name is Love.

        I know thee, Saviour, who thou art,
             Jesus, the feeble sinner’s friend,
        Nor wilt thou with the night depart,
             But stay and love me to the end:
        Thy mercies never shall remove;
        Thy nature and thy name is Love.

        The Sun of Righteousness on me
             Hath rose, with healing in his wings;
        Wither’d my nature’s strength; from thee
             My soul its life and succour brings;
        My help is all laid up above;
        Thy nature and thy name is Love.

        Contented now upon my thigh
             I halt till life’s short journey end;
        All helplessness, all weakness, I
             On thee alone for strength depend;
        Nor have I power from thee to move;
        thy nature and thy name is Love.

        Lame as I am, I take the prey;
             Hell, earth, and sin with ease o’ercome;
        I leap for joy, pursue my way,
             And, as a bounding hart fly home,
        Through all eternity to prove
        Thy nature and thy name is Love.

_____

   
by Michael D. Snediker

   
Wrestling Song

   
        Our spandex clung like denouement
        to limbs as fast as lariats,
        lassoed and whipped Kabuki acts
        from bodies cool and pale as Noh.

        You wooed me into a dragon-screw,
        then suplexed hard against the mat;
        pescadoed putti bullied and booed,
        your belly locked into my back.

        The putti flocked, and tried to track
        which body clung to this or that,
        which unitarded shoulders shrugged
        trapezii from singlet-straps,

        which hamstring sprung, and elbow blocked
        and ankle pressed a signet’s wax—
        velocity spun our flanks so fast
        we blurred before we’d yet begun.

        A fan in the corner turned its head,
        and in its croon, remembered air;
        while we, in swandives flung, forgot,
        and firebirds of bruises bloomed.

_____

_____

   
by Jayson Iwen

   
Wrestling with Gods

from Six Trips in Two Directions

   
        I’m in a walled garden full of ornamental trees

        A man steps into the blue moonlight from a bluer shadow

        I’ve been waiting for you a long time

        It begins to snow

        Who are you running from

        I listen for my pursuer

        It’s silent but for my own breathing

        What’s in the briefcase

        I don’t know what to say

        Shall we take a look

        I hand him the briefcase, and he opens it

        Ah, my manuscript

        Thank you

        I beg your pardon, I blurt

        I’m sitting at a desk, in a motel right now, copying this dialogue word for word from the manuscript you just gave me

        And this is what I say next

        You see, I made you come here alone

        I made you hand it over

        I even made it snow

        And you

        He points at me

        Made it all possible

        Without even knowing it

        Though, of course, you had your suspicions

        And that’s why you got the job

        I even know what you’re thinking now

        He crouches down and plucks a pebble from the grass, then steps forward and holds it before my eyes

        Here’s your stone, a stone so heavy it breaks my heart at the thought of it, a stone so heavy the whole of creation rises from the depression it has made in time, a stone so heavy with sickness I cannot lift it one moment more or I shall perish

        He tosses it over the garden wall

        ‘Abdu Manaf was the strongest man among the Quraysh, and one day he met the apostle in one of the passes of Mecca alone: “Rukana,” said he, “why won’t you fear God and accept my preaching?”‘

        That simple

        But here’s the real kicker

        There’s an infinite chain of sets of god

        Each self-conscious set containing the previous set within it

        And each emergently conscious one becoming aware of the next larger set

        Becoming it

        For example, one is thinking both of us right now as our story rolls through its mind

        And as long as it holds us, whether we are conscious of it or not, we are part of its infinity

        As the heart of all layers is the utmost layer

        ‘”If I knew that what you say is true I would follow you,” he said’

        You see, common consciousness now is realizing you’re a character in other people’s dreams

        But you’re going a step further

        Listen carefully to who it is you talk to when you’re alone

        The schizophrenic may be the human to the limit

        Will we find who we are talking to one day and see that there is no longer a future, perhaps when we are all together, at the beginning and end of time

        Will we decide to begin again

        ‘The apostle then asked him if he would recognize that he spoke the truth if he threw him, and when he said Yes they began to wrestle, and when the apostle got a firm grip of him he threw him to the ground, he being unable to offer any effective resistance’

        When the whole speaks to the individual

        When I speak to You

        And now you ask

        You want me to worship you

        No, I couldn’t love someone who didn’t consider me their equal

        Besides, I contain only one more than you

        Now that I’m aware of you, what am I supposed to do

        ‘”Do it again, Muhammad,” he said, and he did it again’

        Wrestle me

        Wrestle you

        Yes

        That’s ridiculous

        Every threshold is

        ‘”This is extraordinary,” he said, “can you really throw me”‘

        What are you doing

        He kneels down, turtling himself before me, and I hear his whisper in my ear

        You must make me submit

        But you’ve just submitted

        I’m different than preceding gods that charged like mad bulls

        ‘With their elbows against their elbows, dealt they, knees against knees, head against head, and chest against chest, one another their blows’

        I’m a bit more subtle than that

        As long as I breathe you will breathe my air

        ‘That same night he sent his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, across the ford of the Jabbok’

        I’ll just walk away

        You can’t

        I turn to the wall, but it’s risen to the stars

        It glorifies the next greater god to grapple with you

        By contrasting itself with you, it reminds itself what it is

        The cold and night make a silver bouquet of my sigh

        Alright

        ‘Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak’

        The voices of my teachers return to me

        You must close the distance between yourself and your opponent so he cannot strike you

        Don’t leave gaps so he can slip an arm or leg in

        If one is flexible enough to do so, one can break holds that strength alone cannot

        Hold him closer than a lover

        ‘When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket, and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him’

        With your right hand grab his collar and with your left hand his belt

        And lift

        Creating just enough space to slide your right foot between his armpit and his thigh

        We’re enlightened through such struggle with the other

        For example, ‘jihad’ is properly defined as an all-encompassing engagement of one’s self with one’s world

        Between one and one’s limitations

        ‘Then the man said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking”‘

        What you call yourself is this conversation between ‘You’ and ‘I’

        Just between you and I

        Move so you are standing on his thighs with both feet

        Through the narrative generated by such struggle is vision most viscerally achieved

        And through the physicality of figuration most effectively transmitted

        ‘But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me”‘

        Now use both hands to hoist up on his collar, while thrusting your feet between his legs to the ground, assuming the ‘back mount’ position

        When I enter a classroom, I don’t see Protestants, Catholics, Sunnis, Shias, Hindus, Buddhists, Maronites, Druze, Agnostics, or Atheists

        I see gods sitting in the desks, filling the room with anxious radiance

        Lay your right arm over his right shoulder and under his chin, with the inside of your arm touching the tender of his neck

        ‘So he said to him, “What is your name?” and he said, “Jacob”‘

        What can I say to keep this uneasy host from tearing the world apart

        I am mortal, and have but this short day of mine with which to grapple

        Grab your left bicep with your right hand and place the back of your left hand behind his head with the palm facing you

        ‘Then the man said, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed”‘

        And make a fist

        Each grapples with me in turn and only through flexibility do I survive their superhuman embrace

        Once the fist is made, do the following things to create pressure on the arteries at the sides of his neck

        Bend your left palm away from you

        Flex your biceps

        Squeeze your right forearm toward your right shoulder

        And hold it

        Though the Earth may tremble

        Take these snowflakes, each as similar and as different as the memory of your first kiss recalled at different moments in your life

        I catch one on my tongue and it melts from staggering diversity of design into the unity of water, and diffuses into my bloodstream across the membrane of my parched throat

        It is no longer the blood of a single man

        It is the blood of the universe

        When reading, you think you are merely having a conversation with a writer from elsewhere in spacetime, unpresent and undead

        We drink it endlessly

        As we drink in the sight of our lovers with our eyes

        But you and the text have become part of a greater consciousness, speaking to itself, working something out in its mind

        The sky dripping with what has ever evaporated

        With what has ever condensed from confusion to exhaustion

        What has ever left a stain behind

        As the unconscious ancients were right to assume the voice of conscience they heard was the voice of a god

        What we in the privileged present call consciousness

        You drink the blood of all life

        Of the exhalation we inhabit

        Of earth and stars and endless space

        As knowable as time alone allows

        Wrestling with a god was wrestling with a new form of consciousness that was overcoming you—a new level emerging—and if you lost, you remained in that god’s service—and if you won, you looked down at your feared, beloved, defeated god, lying, panting, on the ground, and for the first time you spoke to yourself—in shock you asked

        What now

        And the voice that answered from then on was your own

        He lies on the torn grass breathing laboriously

        So I’ve defeated you, I say

        Yes

        I was once in your place

        Now we must both move on

        Now you must do what I did then

        First close your eyes

        Now listen carefully to my voice

        Sol sinks below the Earth

        I’m in perfect darkness

        I realize everything I’ve seen has been summoned by voices

        And a new one is articulating a darkness about me

        I touch my eyes

        They’re closed

        I open them

        I’m standing alone on an empty plain, beneath a single burning star

        I raise my hand to my lips

        They’re moving

   
Previously published by Emergency Press

_____

   
by Lori Desrosiers

   
Wrestling with the Poem

   
        We pose opposite one another
        like Hercules and the Cretan Bull,
        but the mad beast gets away from me again,
        terrorizing the lands beyond my desk,
        here in Massachusetts, not in Greece.
        Some days I try to sneak up on him, guerilla style,
        but he dances away,
        snorting at my inadequacies.
        Despite my study of poetics,
        my piece of paper on the wall,
        the innocuous M.F.A.,
        a two year’s journey into conversation,
        followed by workshops with the best of poets,
        a foray into teaching is inspiring,
        a few good sparks, perhaps a flame,
        the match continues.
        We fall together.
        When I find a hold,
        the poem slithers out, that oily boy.
        So, I look for a new move,
        try a poem a day, a practice,
        in thirty days a few good possibilities.
        Now there are thirty new bulls
        wrestling me to the ground.

_____

_____

En la pasada celebración del X aniversario de la fundación del CB Capuchinos se premió la incansable labor que durante los últimos años vienen realizando Juan Torrecillas y Fede Paredes con sus cámaras de video y fotos para plasmar lo que sucede durante los principales eventos en nuestro baloncesto de base.

Evidentemente, la mayor parte de su material esta basado en los partidos que disputan equipos del CB Capuchinos puesto que sus hijos pertenecen a ese Club pero, ya que a lo largo de las temporadas estos equipos juegan con multitud de Clubes de la Región, al final quedan reflejados muchos de los equipos que participan en las diferentes categorías, sus jugadores, entrenadores y aficionados, entre ellos muchos de los blogeros/as que publican con regularidad sobre el basket de nuestra Región.

Según exponen en el foro del Club, en los últimos años han llegado a realizar cerca de 70.000 fotografías y varios cientos de videos. Algunas de las más significativas están colgadas por temporadas y categorías en dicho foro para uso y disfrute de cualquier aficionado.

En la cena homenaje a la que nos referíamos al comienzo, expusieron cerca de novecientas que intentan ser un “breve” repaso de estos diez años de existencia del Club. Son una mezcla entre antiguas rescatadas y nuevas realizadas durante los últimos cuatro años .

En ellas podréis encontrar a muchas de las personas que, de una u otra manera, han conformado o lo siguen haciendo nuestro deporte, no solo en el CB Capuchinos sino en muchos otros Clubes de la Región de Murcia (ya sabeis la gran movilidad geográfica y multiplicidad de puestos de hay que tener para que “esto” siga funcionando).

En ellas están, a modo de ejemplo y por orden alfabético: Alberto Moreno, Alberto Zapata, Alejandro Palazón, Alex Belando, Alex Moya, Ana Belén, Andrés Francés, Andrés Solana, Ángel Gómez, Ángela García, Anna Liouvabina, Antonio García, Antonio Peñalver, Benito Guirao, Cari Sánchez, Cari Sancho, Carles Miñana, Carmen Puigcerver, Daniel Sánchez, David Alcaraz, David Hernández, Diego Hellín, Diego Vélez, Domingo Funes, Donato Martínez, Elena Solana, Emilio Soler, Eugenio Alcaraz, Fede Paredes, Felipe Coello, Fran Martínez, Fran Torres, Francisco Cañizares, Fulgencio Manzano, Germán Juárez, Isabel Soler (Tita), Israel Álvaro, Jaime de la Cierva, Jaime Peñarrubia, Javi Ortuño, Javier Argiles, Javier Escolano, Javier Molina, Jorge Morán, José Ángel Mayor, José Antonio Martínez “Weeble”, José Antonio Mellado, José Francisco Navarro (Tao), José Maria Bernabé, José Murcia, José Alcaraz, Josema Castro, Juan Antonio Fernández, Juan Carlos García, Juan Carlos Hernández, Juan Enrique Hernández, Juan Oliva, Juan Torrecillas, Juan Victor Lorente, Juanfran Hernández, Julio Soler, Laura Fernández, Laura Gil, Luismi Castillo, Marcelo Hugo Dabat, Marcos Martínez, Marcos Molina, Marcos Molina Jr., Matilde Lafuente, Miguel Abengoechea, Miguel Ángel Cuesta, Ofelia Dalzotto Galván, Oscar Fernández, Paco Guillen, Pencho Madrid, Pepe Ortuño Jr., Pepe Ortuño Sr., Pilar Ballesta, Pilar Quesada, Quini García, Ramón Sánchez, Salvador Rosique, Sergio Manrique de Lara, Susana Gómez, Teresa Torres, Txetxi Salesa, Willy Llorca, Javier Romero, Antonio Pérez y Alberto Avilés, etc. Son un un rápido repaso a las personas (mayores de edad) que aparecen en las fotos de los dos albumes. Una buena colección de caras conocidas.

Podeis encontrar las fotos en:
Primer album de fotos

Segundo album de Fotos

Además de las fotos proyectadas como recuerdo de los 10 años, se paso un video que intenta hacer un repaso del nacimiento del Club, su recorrido y catacterísticas principales que lo han definido hasta hoy. Nos parece muy interesante.

X ANIVERSARIO CB CAPUCHINOS MURCIA from CB CAPUCHINOS MURCIA on Vimeo.

I think because I grew up on French Creek in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania I have an affinity for lakes, creeks, etc. and the nature that surrounds it. And simple things like croquet, horseshoes, picnics and BBQ’s. We had lots of picnics overlooking the French Creek and my grandmother “Nanny” grew and made many of the things we ate her self. As a child I just wanted store bought crap like other kids got. Little did I know that as an adult I would give anything to be back at French Creek!

So maybe all this explains why I like this magazine called Country Living. Sometimes I think the covers are so bad I’m embarrassed to even get it but inside is a different story. Great photos, art direction and stories. Sometimes a little too countrified but usually not.

So in the October issue is a story about this cool couple, David Hernandez and his wife Tereasa Surrat who bought and restored an old lakeside retreat in Wisconsin and the results are fantastic.

There are dozens of really great inspiring photos, I could barely know which ones to choose…

Even a little winter…

Can’t imagine the work and money that went into restoring this place! Absolutely love Tereasa’s motto of
“found, free or flea”!!!

Would love love love to go to Wandawega Lake Resort someday no matter what the season! This place is Cozy personified!

“We’re so bad right now that for us back-to-back home runs means one today and another one tomorrow.” Earl Weaver

Michael Aubrey has Been a Bright Spot for the Orioles

The Baltimore Orioles tied this season’s American League losing streak at 11 games, well make that broke it with at 12 games tonight.  However do not fear the Orioles cannot break their own team record losing streak unless they lose out and begin next year on a losing skid. Since the Orioles lost the first 21 games of the 1988 season and there are only 5 games left the worst that can happen are 17 straight losses.  Since I have made a significant investment in team gear such as jerseys, t-shirts, hats and cell phone holders I do hope that this does not continue.  The last time the Orioles won a game was back on September 16^th.  In every case they have found interesting if not painful ways to lose.  There have been blow outs, and there have been meltdowns.  Recently the O’s have taken to getting lots of hits and base runners and on occasion score a decent amount of runs but leaving lots of men on base.  The result of course is when the pitching melted down the opposing team ended up outscoring the O’s.

Going into the month the O’s were well over 20 games behind the Yankees, so the remainder of the season was pretty much in the tank.  A number of things contributed to the September collapse which was very much like the August collapse of the O’s AAA affiliate the Norfolk Tides. The Orioles are a team that has struggled in part due to injuries of key personnel as well as trades, just as the Tides were impacted by call-ups and injuries.  The injuries have included All Star outfielder Adam Jones as well as Rookie of the Year contender Nolan Reimold and starting pitcher Brad Bergeson.  Trades included closer George Sherrill and Designated Hitter Aubrey Huff and pinch hitter deluxe Oscar Salazar.

Alberto Castillo is Showing Promise as a Reliever

As the season has drawn to a close the team has made some moves that although prudent for the health and future of some of their young prospects.  Several pitchers had reached the number of innings that the club wanted them to achieve during the season including Chris Tillman and Brian Matusz.  Nolan Reimold as mentioned is injured but was playing injured most of the year and finally elected to have surgery on his frayed hamstring.

Until the last 12 games the O’s had one of the better team batting averages in the league but during this losing streak the team average has dropped significantly, especially in situations with runners on base or in scoring position.   Pitching has been hard to come by and even fielding has not been always impressive.  Even when starters have a good game going the relief staff has not been able to do the job resulting in a number of losses during this streak.  It is like Earl Weaver said “The key to winning baseball games is pitching, fundamentals, and three run homers.”  The Orioles are not getting much of anything right now.

Jeff Fiorentino seen here Hitting a Home Run off of Bartolo Colon should find a Home in the Majors

In spite of this there is reason to hope and there are some bright spots on the Orioles roster.  Nolan Reimold and Brad Bergeson show great potential as does catcher Matt Wieters who has steadily gained confidence behind the plate and at bat.  Others are showing signs that they could become productive members of the team for the next several years.  Michael Aubrey at 1^st Base has been quite consistent and may be in the process of winning a spot on next year’s active roster.  Rookie pitchers Chris Tillman and Brian Matusz show great potential and reliever Alberto Castillo has done very well in his relief appearances since coming up this month.  Among the veterans Brian Roberts, Nick Markakis, Adam Jones and Luke Scott should be back and Jeremy Guthrie after a horrible start has began to get himself into his old form. Melvin Mora and Felix Pie should be back as well. If the pitching staff gets healthy and Tillman and Matusz pitch to the level expected the Orioles have a chance of at least being competitive next year even though I think that challenging the Yankees and Red Sox is a couple years off.

The Orioles have some very good prospects as well as rookies that I have not mentioned including pitchers David Hernandez, Jeff George and relievers Kam Mikalio and Jim Miller.  There are also a number of position players such as infielder Brandon Snyder and utility man Brandon Pinckney who could find themselves on the team at some point.

One player that I have not mentioned who should stay in the majors is outfielder Jeff Fiorentino.  Jeff has done very well since his call up however his comparative lack of power at the plate, despite being a great hitter in being able to get on base combined with the O’s outfield depth may mean that he has no place on this team.  With his speed, fielding ability, steadiness at the plate and all round hustle he needs to stay in the majors even if not on the O’s.  A place that might work for Jeff might be in San Francisco where in a park not geared for power his ability as a situational hitter would help the team.  Likewise his speed and fielding abilities would also be a good fit in the large outfield expanse at AT&T Park.

The one spot that I think that the team needs a change is the Field Manager Dave Trembley.  Trembley seems to be a good teacher but is not terribly inspirational.  Admittedly he began the year with a weak squad but something is not working and I do like his calm, but I wonder if the teams needs fire rather than calm right now.  My choice would be for the O’s to make a serious offer for Bobby Valentine now that he has returned from Japan.

Peace,

Padre Steve+

I’ve seen Lester better.  He had a quality start, which is awesome for any pitcher, but I’ve seen him better.  We all have.  He gave up three runs on ten hits over six innings, four strikeouts, no walks, and two home runs, both of which were lead-off solo shots.

Actually, when you look at his line, your first thoughts aren’t, “Good, another quality start,” or “Wow, he didn’t walk anybody,” or “I’m glad he threw only 102 pitches.” Rather, your first thoughts are, “Ten hits? Ten hits?! Since when does Jon Lester give up ten hits? And to the Orioles, no less!” and “His strikeout count was pretty low last night,” and “He gave up two home runs.  Interesting.  And not in a good way,” and “102 pitches only got him through six innings? Good move on Tito’s part to take him out after that batter in the seventh, because he could see some things weren’t quite right with this outing, one of them being efficiency, or lack thereof, if 102 pitches only got him through six innings.”

Well, I don’t know about you, but that’s what I was thinking.  It’s not that I’m unappreciative of Lester’s effort last night, which was very good.  It’s just that, the better and better a player becomes, and the more consistent the player becomes in his improvement, the more you expect that player to perform at a certain level.  So when that player performs at a lower, albeit still good, level, it’s surprising.  For example, if Josh Beckett had that exact line in one of his games, it would probably be an even more serious cause for concern this close to the playoffs.

The relievers, with the exception of Delcarmen, were good.  They combined, with the exception of Delcarmen, to pitch three more no-hit innings, which again would have been perfect if it weren’t for Ramirez’s walk.  Delcarmen, in case you’re wondering, came on to take care of the ninth.  He didn’t do that.  He allowed back-to-back home runs, walked two men, and didn’t retire a single batter.  Exit Delcarmen, enter Ramirez, end ballgame.  Red Sox win.  But before we leave the subject of the bullpen, I have to say that this is exactly why Tito is a managerial genius.  Nobody knows players better as a team than their manager, and Tito clearly revealed this when he put Delcarmen in to pitch the ninth.  It’s no secret that Delcarmen struggles a bit at the end of the season, which is why Tito put him in to pitch the ninth inning of a ballgame that was locked.  Even after he allowed the two home runs, the final score was 11-5.  This may not seem like a big deal, but you’d be surprised as to how many managers don’t account for that.

Well, a final score like that needs a lot of runs, so we have a lot to talk about.  And we had a little bit of everything.  Pedroia went two for six with two runs and a steal.  Youk plated one.  Ortiz doubled twice and batted in a run.  Lowell had a great night, going three for four with two RBIs.  Josh Reddick hit a two-run shot off Hernandez with two out in the second, and it was a nice piece of hitting for a September call up.  And by nice I mean huge, because it cleared the flagpoles in right field.  And then, the eighth inning.  The crown jewel, if you will, of the night’s offensive accomplishments.  JD Drew is the man of the hour here.  He would finish the night three for five with a double, two runs, and four RBIs.  With two on, two out in the inning, and a full count, he sent a ball that was a little up in the zone to the left field seats.  One swing of the bat and three more Red Sox runs on the board.  Beautiful.  Just beautiful.  And as if that weren’t enough, Brian Anderson got in on the action by going back-to-back and hitting a solo shot beyond the center field wall in his first at-bat of the game.  That was the last RBI we’d record, but believe me, that was enough.

The defense was on as well.  Gonzalez, Pedroia, Youk, Lowrie, and Kotchman had three double plays between them.

A question that has recently come to the forefront is whether V-Mart will catch Beckett in the playoffs.  Since this question was posed, there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that Tek would be behind the dish for Beckett in October.  Tek is always behind the dish for Beckett.  The one time V-Mart caught Beckett, he allowed seven runs, which may or may not have to do with the fact that V-Mart was catching.  It is true, though, that a starter and catcher get into a groove faster when they’ve worked closely with each other for a long time.  While I do acknowledge that our lineup is more powerful with V-Mart starting at catcher, I don’t think I’d feel very comfortable with the battery.  I’d rather go without a few runs and have Beckett so on that we won’t need them than need the runs because Beckett’s wavering.

So Lowell tied the game, Youk batted in the go-ahead run, and after that we just kind of ran away with it.  It was pretty nice.  We’re playing the Orioles, so we know the game will have a positive outcome, so we can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show, watching it for baseball’s sake and the love of the game.  When you know you’re going to win, it takes some of the edge and intensity off, and you can notice nuances and finer points of play.  It’s quite pleasant.  And lucky for us, the fun continues.  Today we have our last game in Camden Yards and our last against Baltimore this season.  Dice-K will take on Jason Berken and will look to build on the success of his previous outing.

In other news, Patriots at Jets this afternoon.

SittingStill.net

What can I say? Camden Yards is basically our home away from home.  If you’re the Red Sox and you have to go on the road, you want to start the trip at Camden Yards with some wins and some encouragement from Red Sox Nation.  It’s sad that the Birds have fallen from glory.  It used to be that the Yankees’ big rivalry was with Baltimore and not with us because Baltimore was actually really good.  But that fall from glory isn’t as sad as their performance in this day and age.  Bottom of the pile in the American League East, can’t buy a win, and don’t even have the support of their own fan base when we’re in town because Red Sox fans flood the stands.  It’s like being at Fenway.  Good for us, but quite sad for the Orioles, I’d say.

That first paragraph would be very out-of-place without a win.  Turns out there was a win.  3-1, thanks to Buchholz, Kotchman, Bay, and Ellsbury.  Buchholz had a terrific night, working six innings and relinquishing just one run on five hits with three walks and a strike out.  That one run was Luke Scott’s long ball with two out in the second.  It happens.  But it’ll be interesting to see Buchholz’s strikeout count progress in the long run.  Right now he doesn’t record many strikeouts per game, because he relies heavily on off-speeds, which usually induce outs not of the K variety.  But as he gets older, he may discover more power on his fastball, and I’m looking forward to seeing how he’ll use that and incorporate it into his already remarkable mix of pitches.

Bard, Okajima, and Papelbon got a hold, a hold, and a save, respectively.  No incidents to report.  Finally.  Three no-hit innings that would’ve been perfect if Bard didn’t allow that walk.  So aside from a very gratifying sense of satisfaction, nothing to say about an impeccable performance like that.  I will say that it was a breath of fresh air after what we’ve seen from the ‘pen over the past few days.

Kotchman singled to left to score Bay in the second.  Bay hit an absolutely fantastic home run to lead off the fourth (ever notice how a lot of our home runs lately are lead-offs?).  He was all over it.  Perfect swing, perfect trajectory, perfect result.  Perfect.  And Ellsbury singled to left to score Reddick in the sixth.

Ellsbury and V-Mart both went two for five; Kotchman went three for four.  Ellsbury stole second.  Pedroia almost scored in the third on a hard-hit double by V-Mart, but he was out at the plate.  A valiant effort, though.  I mean, he was hustling, and that’s really what we love about Dustin Pedroia the dirt dog.  Youk was back in the lineup last night.  He went hitless but ran in to gather up a grounder and fire to first to get Melvin Mora out in the fourth, which was good because you need to be pretty healthy to make a play like that, so it appears that Youk will be fine.

Wakefield is officially scheduled to pitch Monday! I hope all goes well.  I know the rest of the rotation is rooting for him; they could use the extra day off.  The Angels’ coaches will be fined for bad deportment following Wednesday’s win, which they view as controversial.

So as usual, we beat the O’s.  Also as usual, Clay Buchholz got that win.  And for the third and final “as usual,” we discuss the Red Sox’s annual rookie hazing ritual, which involves the rookies dressing up in altogether hilarious costumes.  This year’s theme? “The Wizard of Oz.” Junichi Tazawa was Dorothy, Josh Reddick was Glinda, Dusty Brown was the Scarecrow, Daniel Bard was the Cowardly Lion, Michael Bowden was the Tin Man, and Jed Lowrie was the Wicked Witch of the West.  (This is actually Lowrie’s second time around because he hasn’t completed a full Major League season yet; last year he dressed up as a character from “High School Musical.”) All in all, it was a great day.  Tonight should be even better.  Something tells me a Lester-at-David-Hernandez matchup will be a very good game to watch.

In other news, we traded Phil Kessel to the Maple Leafs for two first-round draft picks and a second-round pick in 2010 and a first-round pick in 2011.  Can’t say I didn’t see it coming, and to be honest with you, at this point I don’t think I’d want him in a Bruins uniform this season.  His head wouldn’t be in the right place after all that’s happened, and so it wouldn’t be fair to him or the team.  He didn’t even want to come back; he didn’t particularly like Claude Julien’s approach.  Besides, the Leafs gave him $27 million for five years.  For us to match that, we probably would’ve had to either send down or trade Michael Ryder and Andrew Ference.  So good luck to him in Toronto.  I know he’ll be great there.  He’d be great anywhere.  That’s the unfortunate part.  If only it had worked out, right? But that’s the downside of a salary cap.  Kessel was asking for a lot of money, so Peter Chiarelli had a choice: he could sign him, or he could sign all of our other young guys who were free agents, not to mention all of the guys who’ll be free agents after this season.  He chose the latter, which was wise I think, because having one Phil Kessel won’t do much for you if you don’t also have a David Krejci and a Matt Hunwick, for example, to support him.  But he’s got his own work to do.  He may be great in Toronto, but it’ll have to be without Milan Lucic creating space and without Marc Savard sending him pinpoint passes.

AP Photo

Deivy Batista

A night after a single error cost the Chukars in the bottom of the ninth, Idaho Falls took advantage of a Casper error for the game-winning run in a 5-4 win.

Tied 4-4 in the fifth, Idaho Falls’ Alex Llanos reached on a fielding error from Casper shortstop David Hernandez. A pair of wild pitches allowed Llanos to advance to third and he scored the deciding run on a Deivy Batista sacrifice fly.

The sacrifice fly completed the comeback from an early 4-0 deficit. Casper struck in the bottom of the first with a three-run Jared Clark home run before adding another run in the third off starter Santiago Garrido.

Idaho Falls answered right back in the top of the fourth, dragging four runs across the plate thanks to RBI singles from Wil Myers and Tito Espinosa, and a two-run Malcom Culver single.

Garrido retired Casper in order in the bottom of the fifth after Idaho Falls took the lead and reliever Richard Folmer faced two over the minimum through the final three innings to record his eighth save of the season. The eighth save ties him for second in the league in that category.

The win moves Idaho Falls to 23-14 (.622) in the second half of the season, but still leaves it eight games behind the Orem Owlz, who won again Thursday. At 43-30 (.589), Idaho Falls has the second best overall record in the Pioneer League heading into the season’s final day.

The Chukars wrap up the 2009 season starting at 7:05 p.m. today in Casper.

Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia, seen here launching his homer in the third inning, notched the first multi-homer game of his career to lead the Red Sox past the Baltimore Orioles. (AP Photo/Steven Senne)

Boston Red Sox’s Victor Martinez led off the fifth inning by roping a double down the left-field line against Baltimore Orioles reliever Brandon Bass. Kevin Youkilis followed with a walk, then David Ortiz contributed a single. The bases were loaded with nobody out–an offense’s dream. Given the Red Sox offensive production over the first four innings, it appeared to be a forgone conclusion that they would score. But, to my surprise, they didn’t: Jason Bay struck out and J.D. Drew grounded into a double play.

If the Clay Buchholz who was on the mound for Boston tonight was the 2008 version of Clay Buchholz, this would have been a crushing blow. If this Buchholz surfaced, the Red Sox would have had no choice but to take advantage of every opportunity, to collect any runs they could. Why? Because Buchholz was just a thrower then, and his statistics showed. In 2008, the then 24-year old Buchholz made fifteen starts and one relief appearance, and was horrible in nearly every outing; he allowed 93 hits, 63 runs, and 11 home-runs in 76 innings, good for a 2-9 record and an abysmal 6.75 ERA. Yes, the Red Sox offense would have kicked themselves for missing out on such an opportunity.

But not now. They had no reason to. Why? Because the 2007 Buchholz, and for that matter, the Buchholz of the past few months, showed up. In 2007, making his age start at then-23, Buchholz tossed a no-hitter against these very same Orioles. Baltimore had never heard of the kid, and had only scouting reports to go off of. This time, the Orioles had much more to go from, but they still couldn’t figure him out.

He entered this outing on some kind of roll. He’s had two rough starts this year, but despite allowing seven runs in both, the Red Sox offense backed him up by scoring 18 runs in the first and 12 in the second. Throwing those two poor appearances out the window, the lanky righthander has made seven other starts and failed to allow more than three runs in any. Boston didn’t expect the worst from Buchholz, which came consistently during his nightmarish 2008. They expected his best, and, more importantly, he did as well, and delivered.

He sent down the Orioles in order in the first, a recurring theme, then continued to benefit from outstanding run support. Jacoby Ellsbury walked to begin the bottom half of the inning, then Dustin Pedroia followed by smashing an offering from 24-year old Orioles starting pitcher David Hernandez over the Green Monster and down onto Landsdowne Street below. Hernandez knew it was gone at the crack of the bat, but turned around to watch the ball sail into the Boston night anyway. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for Buchholz and the Red Sox, this would also be a recurring theme.

After Martinez, Boston’s catcher and fourth-place hitter, narrowly missed hitting a home-run to center-field by flying out to the warning track, Youkilis didn’t, tomahawking a solo-shot into the Green Monster seats in left.

Buchholz breezed through the second inning, sending the Orioles down in order again, and was once again rewarded for his efforts.

Shortstop Alex Gonzalez stretched the Red Sox lead to four with a solo-homer to left, keeping the fans occupying the Green Monster seats extremely busy.

Buchholz mowed down Baltimore in the third, recording his second of five strikeouts in the process. Yet again, his offense thanked him.

Pedrioa, who tagged a fastball in the first from Hernandez, crushed a changeup from him to lead off the bottom of the third to notch the first multi-home-run game of his already illustrious career (if you are unfamiliar with Pedroia and his accomplishments, he won the Rookie of the Year award in 2007, then the American League Most Valuable Player award the following season). After Martinez and Youkilis were retired, Ortiz walked to send Hernandez to the showers, then Bay worked a walk against young righthander Chris Lambert. This two-out rally preceded a three-run homer by Drew, who just won’t cool off.

Buchholz now had a eight-run lead with which to work. A one-run advantage would have sufficed for him, though. He worked around a wall-ball double by Orioles 23-year old catcher Matt Wieters that led off the bottom of the fifth by retiring the next three hitters, including two by strikeout.

He was unphased by his offense’s inability to plate a run in the fifth by pitching a 1-2-3 sixth, then, after Boston scored a ninth run, pitched the seventh with similar success.

That was his final inning, the seventh. His line: three hits, no runs, one walk, five strikeouts. His start was brilliant, and he made it look effortless.

Twenty-three year old pitcher Michael Bowden, fresh up from the minor leagues, followed his lead by pitching a scoreless eighth, and after the sixth Red Sox homer, a solo-shot by Ortiz, a scoreless ninth.

Ortiz’s 23rd homer made the score 10-0 in Boston’s favor, coincidentally the same amount of runs scored and allowed in Buchholz’s no-hitter two years ago. Then, Buchholz was an unknown. Now, the Orioles, as well as the rest of baseball, know what he has become, a star pitcher in the making.

We knew Josh Beckett would come around.  We knew there would come a game that could be labeled the start of his turnaround for 2009.  We knew it, and we were ready for it, so I think I speak for all of Red Sox Nation when I say that that’s part of what made yesterday’s loss so annoying.  That was, to put it simply, Beckett’s first good game since his last good game, but the lineup conspired to ensure that it wouldn’t be a win.

He pitched a full seven, gave up three runs on six hits, walked two, and struck out four.  Not very high on the strikeouts but low on the walks, nil on the home runs, and right on the money on the pitch count at ninety-six.  He used three pitches: the four-seam, which topped out at ninety-five miles per hour, the curveball, and the cutter, with very heavy emphasis on the four-seam and curve.  But hey, it worked; he threw sixty-two pitches for strikes.  And so I also tip my hat to Tek for calling this one so well.

Hideki Okajima didn’t help.  He let Carlos Quentin go yard with a man on and two out in the eighth.  Honestly, he couldn’t just get the other out? Okajima’s been very porous lately; he’s been allowing runs right and left.  He hasn’t been as porous as Michael Bowden was in that awful 20-11 blowout with the Yanks, but maybe we should start putting Bowden in, because this is just getting ridiculous.

The final score was 5-1.  Again.  We only managed one run for the entire game.  Ellsbury went two for four with a steal.  Pedroia doubled, finally.  V-Mart, Bay, Lowell, and Gonzalez each had hits.  Gonzalez threw Kotsay out at the plate in the third as he tried to score from first, which was an absolutely phenomenal play.  The ball rolled into the corner of left field, and Kotsay had a legitimate shot, but Bay fired to the infield, Gonzalez fired home, and Tek successfully applied the tag.  Play of the game.  Youk was responsible for the RBI.  Again, pathetic.

Wakefield will skip his Friday start.  That’s not good news.  Neither was the fact that Papi was benched because of the current slump he’s in.  I think it’ll do him good to return home.

This was Mark Buehrle’s first win since his perfect game on July 23.  That’s a long time to go without a win.  And that’s part of what makes it more painful.  We were the team that gave him his first win in that stretch.  We’re not supposed to be a team that provides solace for struggling pitchers.  We’re supposed to be the team that makes those struggles continue.  But in the long run, we’ll be so much the better for this game, because this was Beckett’s twenty-eighth start of the season.  That puts his twelve-million-dollar option for 2010 on the table.  So unless he finishes the year on the DL, it’ll be there for us to pick up.  I venture to guess we’ll be seeing Beckett pitch for Boston for a long, long time.  Meanwhile, we’re back at Fenway and David Hernandez will square off against Clay Buchholz.  I’m looking forward to this.

AP Photo

Batter Up: September Comes to Harbor Park

Fans of Triple “A” Baseball teams in the International League and Pacific Coast League understand that the on the 1^st of September the Major League Team will expand their roster.  With the roster expansion at the Major League level there is a ripple effect and sometimes even a “sucking sound” as the Triple “A” affiliates have some of their most promising players taken up to the big leagues.

On some teams this process may be a season long process, especially if the Major League team is lacking depth, talent or is suffering from injuries to key players.  However it is the roster expansion in September that changes the Triple “A” team significantly and all at once.  A couple of things happen during this time.  First and the most obvious is that key players are taken up to the Major League franchise.  For some players this may be a repeat trip having been called up for a brief amount of time earlier in the season.  For others it is their introduction to the big leagues and intended to give them Major League experience before going back down to the minors to continue working on their game the following year. For all it will be the opportunity for the Major League club to see them on the field, in the clubhouse and evaluate them to see where or if they have a place on the big club.  The move up does not always mean that the organization will even keep the player; some might be traded or given their outright release.

Chris George in His Win

Simultaneous to the Major League call up the Triple “A” roster is reinforced by players from Double “A” and occasionally even single “A” farm teams.  Again this is a similar process where players are given the chance to play at a higher level and be evaluated by the staff.  The same dynamics apply as with the Major League team, except that for some players this is their last hurrah, they are being called up to fill a roster position and will be off the team or out of baseball the following year.   In lower levels of Minor League ball the end of the season frequently sees those of marginal ability weeded out to make room for draft picks, college players and other prospects to have a place in the organization.

From my view from Section 102, Row B, Seat 2 at the Church of Baseball Harbor Park Parish the September 1^st call-up is the culmination of a season of call-ups and trades which began early and continued right up to the end of August.   The Norfolk Tides inhabit the Parish Church with me and my friends, Elliott the Usher, Barry the Scorekeeper, Chip the Usher, Terri the Usher, Marty the Card Dealer, Kenny the Pretzel Guy aka “Crabmeat,” as well as Ray and Charlie and their crew from the Vietnam Veterans of Virginia who man the Beer stand on the concourse behind home plate and several thousand others depending on which night the services are held.  The Tides are the Triple “A” affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles.

Robby Hammock Doubles against Charlotte

The past few years the Orioles have been engaged in a rebuilding process which for many has been long and painful and is not yet complete.  They began in the lower “A” level and progressively worked their way up so that their minor league organization is one of the best in baseball at least as far as talent and prospects are concerned.  Some of that talent had filtered up to Baltimore by the beginning of the year but the Orioles were still a very weak team as they entered the season.  By May the team was calling up members of the Tides, Outfielder Nolan Reimold and Catcher Matt Wieters were among the first to go along with pitchers Brad Bergeson, Lance Berken.  Others would follow throughout the year so that even before the call up at least a dozen former members of this year’s Tides team including pitchers David Hernandez, Chris Tillman and Kam Mickalio were up with Baltimore, or who like Oscar Salazar made the Orioles and were traded and are still in the big leagues.  There were others who were traded at the very end of August including Joey Gathright who went to the Red Sox and Freddy Guzman who went to the Yankees.  There were a number of players who had season ending injuries that might have been called up including Justin Christian, Scott Moore and Jolbert Cabrera.  Cabrera’s injury may be a career ender as he turns 37 in December.

Safe!

The players called up on September 1^st were pitchers Dennis Safrate, Matt Albers and Alberto Castillo. Outfielder Jeff Fiorentino who is arguably the MVP for the Tides this year was also called up. Unfortunately for Fiorentino the Orioles have a stocked outfield of Nick Markakis, Adam Jones and Nolan Reimold so it unlikely that he will stay up beyond the regular season.  It is expected that the O’s will call up several more players on September 8^th following the end of the International League season. There is talk of a couple of pitchers, perhaps Chris Waters and Jim Miller as well a catcher and Second Baseman Justin Turner.

For us in the Church of baseball it meant that we had a season that was very good and really bad. The Tides were probably the best team in Triple “A” at the beginning of the season. By early June they had a large division lead and had close to .700 winning percentage.  With hitting which included power and speed the Tides have had one of the top batting averages in the league all year, even at the end of the season.  Currently they are batting .274 as a team only .001 behind Columbus which is at .275.  The pitching staff was solid but after call ups and injuries mid-season became less effective about the same time the Tides lost most of their power hitters.  This resulted in a All-Star break the team began slump in which the Tides ended up dropping back to 3^rd place and a winning percentage of just above .500.

The Tides have 5 games to finish out the season.  The new players are beginning to show some life and the Orioles and Tides management will beginning planning for the 2010 campaign.  Of particular interest to me are catcher Guillermo Rodriguez an excellent defensive catcher with a better bat than we have seen at that position sin a long time with the exception of Matt Wieters and outfielder Jonathan Tucker just up from AA Bowie where he was on the Eastern League All-Star team this year.  He is much like Joey Gathright, a speedy contact hitter with excellent range in the outfield and I expect that Jonathan will be patrolling the outfield for the Tides in 2010.  Recently acquired Rhyne Hughes has added punch to the lineup at First Base hitting home runs in his last two games and I would not be surprised to see the Orioles keep him around.

Moon over Harbor Park

September has started better for the Tides and for the first time since August 6^th. The win streak has improved the Tides record to 70-68 moving them back to a .507 winning percentage, currently in 3^rd place in the IL South. In the three games the Tides have outscored their opponents 21-3 defeating Charlotte 10-0, Gwinnett 8-1 and 3-2.  Andy Mitchell, Chris George and Chris Lambert got the wins in strong performances.  Tides relievers were excellent allowing no runs.  Jim Miller rang up his 17^th save tonight having reclaimed his rightful place as the Tides closer.  The two wins over Gwinnett have dropped that former rival from Richmond to 2 games back of Durham for the I South Title with 4 games left to play.

Friday night the Tides will play their last home game of the season at the Church of Baseball, Harbor Park parish at 7:15 against these same Braves hoping to put another nail in the Braves Title hopes.

Peace,

Steve+

“We’re so bad right now that for us back-to-back home runs means one today and another one tomorrow.”  Earl Weaver

Russ Ortiz Bearing Down on a Tides Batter

This is a hard blog to write and while things are not as nearly as bad for the Norfolk Tides as they were for Earl Weaver’s Orioles things are not going well at the present time.  The Tides are not nearly the quality of team that they were in the first half of the season.   On the positive side they are still doing better than any time in the past 4 years and still have a shot at making the International League playoffs as either the Southern Division champion or wild card. At the same time they have fallen off their torrid pace of winning in April May and early June where they were almost playing .700 ball and up anywhere from 6-10 games over their competitors.

People are wondering what has happened and the answer is all too obvious.  While the Orioles have remarkably improved every level of their farm system they have no real depth at the Major League level.  They have some potentially great players, but a lot are still relatively young and inexperienced.  The Orioles began the year as a marginal Major League franchise with a great farm system. Unfortunately the big team was so bad early that the Orioles elected to raid their minor league system of their best players, both pitchers and hitters.  The Tides lost pitchers Jim Johnson, David Hernandez, Chris Tillman, Matt Albers, Brad Bergeson and Jason Berken.  Unfortunately I think some were called up before their time, however this is certainly not the case with starters David Hernandez, Brad Bergeson who need just a bit more seasoning and relievers Jim Johnson and Matt Albers. As for hitting the Tides lost the center of their order to the big club, Nolan Reimold, Matt Wieters and Oscar Salazar.  Salazar was traded to the Padres while hitting well over .400 of the bench and providing solid hitting and fielding percentages.  The Orioles also brought pitcher Brain Matusz up from AA Bowie without bringing him up to the AAA team.

Another Strike for Ortiz

Do not get me wrong, all of these players are good, but they are all still very young.  While they will get better and are getting valuable Major League experience it is not contributing to the current success of the Orioles nor helping the minor league system. An example of what happens when a Major League team raids its farm system is the 2005 Atlanta Braves, the year of the “Baby Braves” where Atlanta almost made it to the World Series based on incredible performances by their rookies.  Unfortunately the call up of all of these players decimated the minor league system and it has only been in the last couple of years that the Braves minor league system, which is consistently one of the best in baseball to restock and rebuild.  Now the Orioles are fortunate to have a deep farm system, however the risk in doing what they have done is to potentially sacrifice the future for the present.

As I said the Tides are not the same team they were a month or two ago.  They seem to  have lost the edge, the swagger and self confidence is gone, frustration shows on many players faces. They do not look relaxed or like they are having fun anymore.  Tonight they dropped their second game in a row to the Scranton Wilkes-Barre Yankees, who won the International League last year and who they New York Yankees have built into a formidable AAA franchise.  The Yankees, despite all the criticism they have received for “being the best team money can buy” with huge contracts for free agents and a massive payroll nonetheless invest a considerable amount in their farm system.  They are deep both in prospects as well as talented former Major Leaguers such as Shelly Duncan and recently acquired Russ Ortiz.  The Yankees have also used their minor league system to raise their own middle relievers Phil Hughes, Phil Coke, David Robertson and a reliever converted to a starter Joba Chamberlain.  Say what you will that is home grown quality.

Last night the Tides lost 6-1 and were thoroughly out classed by the Yankees.  Tonight was even worse as Russ Ortiz pitched 7 innings of 1 hit ball in 90 degree weather making the Tides, even their .300 plus hitters Justin Turner, Joey Gathright and Jeff Fiorentino look bad.  The Tides lost the game 9-0 getting their second hit with 2 outs in the bottom of the 9^th.  If I wasn’t a big fan of Russ Ortiz tonight would have absolutely no redeeming value except to have worshiped in the Church of Baseball, Harbor Park Parish.  In two starts for the Yankees Ortiz is 2-0 with a 0.00 ERA.  Ortiz has a career Major League Record of 113 wins and 88 losses.

Joey Gathright is Victimized by Ortiz in the 6th in which he struck out the side

I was talking with Elliott the Usher as well as Barry the Scorekeeper about what was happening and we all agreed.  The difference between the teams is that the Major League Yankees have held together with only minor bumps in the road due to injury.  Their pitching staff aided by the home grown middle relievers has done a masterful job in shutting down opponents as their hitters have been on fire.  By doing this they have allowed their minor league clubs to become very good, in particular the Scranton Wilkes-Barre team.  They have talent and depth and players at the minor league level who are proven major leaguers.  The Tides on the other hand have been hampered by the Orioles descent and the resultant decimation of the minor league rosters to fill the gaping holes on the Major League team.  What would have been a very even match up a month and a half ago now was not even close.  The Tides were out-classed and out played by the Yankees. Ortiz in particular made the Tides hitters look bad putting on a major league performance that hopefully will help get him up to the Yankees as they make their pennant run.  I still think that Dusty Baker blew the 2002 World Series by taking Russ out with 1 out in the 7^th and a 5-0 lead against the Angels.  If Ortiz gets back up and the Yankees win the World Series I will be happy for him.

On a positive note the Orioles led by former Tides pitcher David Hernandez beat the Oakland A’s 3-2, their first win against the A’s since 2008.  Hernandez improved his record to 4-4 with a 3.96 ERA.

So tomorrow is another day.  The Tides are only 3 ½ behind the Gwinnett Braves and 2 ½ behind the Durham Bulls in the International League South.  They still have a lot of talent and have a shot at getting in the playoffs, but need to come up big tomorrow to reverse this slide and keep in the playoff race.  I will be back in section 102 row B seat 2 tomorrow come what may.  Hopefully the Deity Herself will help us get through this stretch.

Peace, Steve+

First things first.  The game.  We won, 6-5.  Smoltz finally made his record two and four.  Barely.  Five runs on eight hits over six innings isn’t exactly what you’d hope for for someone you acquired specifically for the postseason, but it’s decent for a starter at the tail end of the rotation.  He didn’t walk anybody and struck out two.  Gave up two two-run shots though which was concerning at best.  Ramirez and Okajima each got holds.  Paps got a save.  Eighteen pitches; twice the number of pitches necessary to get all three batters out on strikes alone, so he’s still not where he needs to be.  On the bright side, he didn’t walk anybody, which has largely been the difference between this year and last year and which his why his ERA doesn’t always reflect how shaky he’s been.  And he didn’t give up a hit.  Two strikeouts.  Not bad for an eighteen-pitch save.  Not bad at all.

You have to love this resurgence of the offense.  It comes at just the right time, too.  You like to see your team flourish in August because many squads can get bogged down between the pressure of an imminent October run and the weight of the heat outside.  August is a tough month any way you spin it, and it’s good to see us start it off so well, especially given our recent struggles.  Ellsbury went three for five with one of his best catches of the season to end the fifth.  He reached over the center field wall to rob Luke Scott of a home run.  And then he led off the bottom of the inning with a home run of his own.  You just can’t make this stuff up.  Jacoby Ellsbury, ladies and gentlemen.  And I think him finally finding his groove in the leadoff spot has really helped the bats wake up.  Youk went three for four with a two-run shot with two out in the seventh.  The ball was clobbered to left field.  Clobbered.  And Ortiz went two for four with a two-run shot in the third.  How ’bout that.

So we were 0 for 4 with runners in scoring position and still managed to score six runs.  I said it before and I’ll say it again: you can score all the runs you want, but unless your pitcher keeps you in the game, the runs won’t help.  Every once in a while, though, runs alone will pull it out.  This brings us to within one and a half games of the Yankees.  We’ve won our last two and started this series on the right foot.

Okay, we’ve covered the game.  Now for the trade deadline.  Jarrod Washburn is with the Tigers, Cliff Lee is with the Phillies, Jake Peavy is with the White Sox, and in an anticlimactic result of epic proportions, Roy Halladay is still with the Blue Jays.  No surprise there.  JP Ricciardi basically said, “Sure, go ahead and take Halladay for a season and a half, and why don’t I just hold on to your entire farm system for you.” Like that was ever going to happen.  We definitely weren’t going to mortgage our future.  But Theo did wheel and deal, and he pulled off a brilliant blockbuster, and at an exceptionally reasonable price, too.  Welcome to Boston, Victor Martinez! As both a catcher and first baseman, he’s very versatile and skilled in the field; the .992 fielding percentage proves it.  And as a .284 switch-hitter, with a .297 career average, he’s the bat we were looking for.  Of course, that begs the question of where he’ll fit in.  With Wakefield on the DL, Tek hasn’t been getting his usual day off every fifth day.  George Kottaras was just placed on the disabled list, probably to make way for Martinez behind the plate.  And since he also plays first base, he can man that bag while Youk moves to third and Lowell takes the day off.  And he’s a DH, so he can give Papi the day off.  Basically, the possibilities are endless.

To get him, we had to give up Justin Masterson and two pitching prospects, Nick Hagadone and Bryan Price.  I have mixed feelings about seeing Masterson go.  The Red Sox never gave him a fair shake as a starter.  The starts we’ve seen from him have been outstanding; he’s held the opposition to about two runs while going deep for a young guy.  And he’s done it consistently.  I hope Cleveland will give him the chance to start consistently.  In other words, we’ll miss the kid, and I wish him the best.

We also traded Adam LaRoche to Atlanta for Casey Kotchman.  LaRoche first came up with Atlanta and he’ll also be going back to the National League, so I like that fit.  As far as Casey Kotchman is concerned, it surprised me a little to learn we swapped a first baseman for a first baseman when we just made a blockbuster deal for another first baseman, but Theo explained it and it makes sense.  Apparently, with LaRoche’s style at the plate, he needs to play regularly to be productive.  While he was here, for all of about a week, he did play pretty regularly and was productive, but perhaps in the long run if he were benched more often, he wouldn’t be.  On the other hand, Kotchman’s different approach would allow him to come off the bench more easily, and with a .282 average so far this season, I hate to say it, but he’s definitely an upgrade from LaRoche.  And he’s an awesome defender, too.

The Yankees acquired Jerry Hairston, Jr. for a catching prospect.  That’s it.  I’m serious.  I tried really hard not to laugh but wasn’t very successful.  I’m not saying the standings situation for the rest of the season will be easy.  I’m saying it just got a whole lot easier.

So in my opinion those were fantastic deadline moves.  Fantastic moves.  Congratulations again to Theo on a successful deadline.  We didn’t overpay for Martinez at all, and the LaRoche-for-Kotchman swap was a straight-up improvement in numbers; you sort of had this sense all along that LaRoche was a chip anyway.  Sad but, as Kotchman said, it’s a business.  Luckily LaRoche is comfortable in Atlanta, and it’s a win-win.  Speaking of win-win, it’s Beckett at David Hernandez tonight,and Martinez will bat third and play first.  I’m pumped.

Reuters Photo

Don’t look now, but we just won two in a row! At the very least, we win the series, but from the way we’ve played over the last two games, a sweep is well within our grasp.  After a 7-2 victory, I have to say I’m feeling it.  Seven runs scored in a single game is the way it should be, and we haven’t seen that in a while.  More like seven runs scored in a single week.  But it looks like we’re slowly but steadily getting back on track.  Just ask the Yankees.  Their winning streak has been duly snapped.  By the A’s.  That is not something to be proud of.  And in a fantastic display of carpe diem, we shrunk their first-place lead to one and a half games.  Onward to first.  Give it a few days.

Lester was brilliant as usual; no surprises there.  With 109 pitches, he gave us quality through seven and a third, gave up two runs on eight hits, walked two, and struck out nine.  Best lefty in the game right here.  Fine, one of the best, as everyone else would say.  We know he’s the best in the game.  Eventually it’ll occur to everyone else and they’ll figure it out.  Probably just around the time Lester rolls into town to dismantle their lineup.  Bard was solid.  Ramirez took twenty-two pitches to finish the ninth.

And now for the offense.  It’s been too long since we had a proper spread to discuss, so I’m looking forward to this.  Ellsbury went two for five with two RBIs on two doubles, a theft of third, and a pickoff on second.  From the leadoff spot.  He’s finally getting used to it up there; all that time in the bottom of the lineup let him focus more on improving himself and less on the pressure of living up to his spot.  And he’s looking good in Number 1; every time he bats there, he looks better and better.  If he stays comfortable he’ll be even more of a tremendous asset.  Pedroia walked and scored.  Drew hit and made a throwing error.  Bay, ladies and gentlemen, went two for three with a walk and a run.  It’s about time.  Lowell, Tek, and Green all hit and scored.

And now for the grand finale.  Or rather grand finales.  We had two long balls.  Both for multiple runs.  Papi hit what amounted to an absolute bomb off the photographer well in center field.  With runners at the corners.  In the first inning.  So in the first inning, Big Papi hits a three-run home run.  Wow.  Just wow.  That one speaks for itself, no? So does the next one.  Two-run shot in the eighth ended up in the Monster seats for Adam LaRoche.  Welcome to Boston.  I think you’ll like it here.  What is it about these guys from the Pirates who come over to the contender of all contenders and suddenly their best comes out? I have no idea, but I hope it continues.  Theo Epstein must be very pleased.  One thing LaRoche has to learn if he keeps going yard: you have to take your helmet off when you enter the dugout.  If you don’t, everyone will start pounding it.  Hard.  Repeatedly.  It’s quite funny.  But other than that, LaRoche can keep on doing what he’s doing so far.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.  One thing I will say is that the O’s went two for twelve with runners in scoring position, and we went two for six with the same amount of hits: ten each.  Which means that the O’s had more opportunities to score than we did.  That’s the pitchers’ responsibilities, so there’s an area of improvement right there if John Farrell needs something to work on.

The Cards acquired Matt Holliday, who went four for five in his St. Louis debut, tying his career high of hits in a single game and racking up the fifteenth four-hitter of his career.  This completely overshadowed the fact that Julio Lugo, also debuting for St. Louis, went two for five with a triple and a home run.  Good for him.  I think the National League pitching will help him out.

Jim Rice is being inducted into the Hall of Fame today.  Congratulations! Like I said, it’s definitely about time.  After twenty-five years and fifteen tries, you’ve earned it.  You’ve most certainly earned it.

David Hernandez at Smoltz.  I think the best thing for Smoltz to do here would be to not lose.  Rather to win and keep the momentum going.  We’re at home and facing a less-than-intimidating opponent, so the matchup should be a good one for Smoltz.  That’s not to say he can’t handle a bigger stage, that’s just saying it should be relatively easy for him to win this one.  Then again, I thought it would be easy for him to beat the Nationals and I was wrong.  Still, like I said, we’re at home, we’re in our division, it’s the second half, the postseason is in sight.  It’s a different atmosphere, so maybe we’ll see a different, and hopefully better, side of Smoltz.

AP Photo

“And then when I was nine…”

“I was told I’d be the only bald guy.”

The New York Festivals International Advertising Awards launched its World Tour showcasing the World’s Best Advertising™ in Chicago on Tuesday, July 21, 2009. Yours truly spent a better part of the day participating in the festival -first as a panelist during an afternoon discussion and later as an audience member during the actual ceremony.

Personally speaking, there were three highlights: the panel discussion, actually winning an award, and the Lifetime Achievement accolade given to famed commercial director, Joe Sedelmaier.

Let’s start with the Sedelmaier prize. If you’re in advertising and ignorant about whom this man is shame on you! Do some digging. In the eighties, Sedelmaier was widely considered to be the premiere director of funny. His fast talking Fed Ex guy and Clara Peller’s “Where’s the beef?” commercial for Wendy’s are icons of the form. There were others: a “Russian Fashion show” mocking the brutal sameness of fast food, a Southern Airlines commercial depicting coach class as a Jewish ghetto. Many of these can be found online. I’ve attached one below.

As was acknowledged by Sedalmaier’s son, JJ and guest presenter, Bob Garfield from AdAge, the thing Joe did better than anyone was finding and using REAL people. Very real people. Often older and comically unattractive, Joe’s cattle call was welcome respite from the very beautiful and mostly fake actors representing most advertising during the glitzy Reagan era. When I started at Leo Burnett, everyone –and I mean everyone- wrote (or tried to write) in the brutally funny style that Joe Sedalmaeir made famous. Good to see him being recognized.

The panel discussion, entitled “Is craft dead?” was about whether or not the aesthetic quality of creativity suffered given the influence of social media, the recession and other mitigating factors. Internet wag, Alan Wolk moderated the group. Other panelists included the Chief Creative Officer of Element 79, Dennis Ryan and Tribal DDB’s Managing Director, David Hernandez. We covered a wide range of topics, including viral videos impact on TV commercials, crowd sourcing (good or evil?) and even the Zappos RFP fiasco. I hope the audience got as much out of it as I did.

After the discussion, panelists were interviewed for a segment on WCIU TV’s “First Business.” If you’re surfing channels next Saturday morning, try not to hurl your Cheerios.

Euro RSCG Chicago took home a Silver medal for Valspar paints. This integrated campaign continues to be our creative front-runner at my agency. Bravo team!

Had fun visiting with the many Burnett people attending the ceremony. My beloved, old agency won a handful of prizes, including a much-deserved medal for Hallmark Card’s “Brother of the Bride.” I adore this commercial and, frankly, the entire long-running campaign. Hallmark and Burnett have been making these beautiful long-form stories for decades. If craft is dying elsewhere it’s alive and well here:

The many other winners can be found on their website: New York Festivals

Finally, a special shout out goes to NYF’s Gayle Mandel. Lovely woman, the green ensemble she donned for the ceremony was damn near worth the price of admission!

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