Raj Oza
"PLAY BALL!"
"PLAY BALL!"

In the Zen Zone: Sky Above, Great Wind

Ryokan wrote with his calligrapher’s pen:

“Keep your heart clear
And transparent,
And you will
Never be bound.
A single disturbed thought
Creates ten thousand distractions.”

Shohei responded with his maple bat:

“Oh, Zen Master,
When I bat,
I’m in the zone.
My heart is clear.
The three home runs I hit
Will never be bound
By the sky above.”

Ryokan wrote with his empty mind:

“The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;
The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.
The flower opens, the butterfly comes;
The butterfly comes, the flower opens.
I don’t know others,
Others don’t know me.
By not-knowing we follow nature’s course.”

Shohei responded with his burnished ball:

“Oh, Zen Master,
When I pitch,
I’m in the zone.
I invite the ball with no-mind.
The ball visits the catcher’s glove with no-mind.
My pitches are but dewdrops on a lotus leaf.
By not-knowing, my ten strikeouts followed nature’s course,
Hurled on the back of a great wind.”

A Cooperstown-bound, Dirt-rich Poet

Upon arriving to Chicago’s welcoming South Side,
Dick Allen had absolutely nothing to hide.
Looking at the past through his aviator glasses,
He surely experienced Philly fans as braying jackasses.

The City of Brotherly Love showered Dick with hate,
Even when he slammed majestic shots from home plate.
So, the brother began his first-base dirt scribbling,
A pointed response to the fans’ ugly spittle dribbling.

With a creative cleated toe,
In the infield he wrote “COKE.”
Then he hit a booming homer
Over the Coke sign . . . way over.

In the dirt, Dick kept on writing;
Maybe it was his way of fighting.
“STOP.” “WHY.” “GONE.” “BOO.”
He wanted to be gone by “OCT 2.”

Bowie Kuhn cried, “Stop!” from his imperial tower;
Like Charles Dickens, Dick Allen spoke truth to power.
The minimalist first-baseman-poet
Did not the commissioner’s line toe it.

To Kuhn’s hapless order, Dick responded with his big toe:
In the manicured dirt around first, he defiantly scratched, “NO.”
Philadelphia’s press kept calling him the boy-like “Richie,”
Even though as a grown man he insisted it really pinched him.

After stops in St. Louis and L.A.,
To Chicago, Mr. Allen found his way.
With Bill Veeck and Chuck Tanner’s less hostile White Sox,
MVP Dick Allen stepped out of racism’s confining black box.

In the Zone, the Giants Zone

Pitchers hit every corner,
Even ancient Verlander.

Fielders get a jump on the ball;
Is Devers gloving his way to the Hall?

Catchers nail the speedy runner;
Hey Bailey, can this be any funner?

Hitters love every umpire’s call;
Will Adames hit into Classic Fall?

With Captain Yaz traded away (sniff, sniff),
Chapman leads by example, playing “What if?”

Managers tell players they’re in the zone of Giants;
Melvin’s “Humm Babies” are a winning alliance.

Waxing Confidence, Waning Condolence

The quotes in the poem are from Arthur Ashe’s memoir, Days of Grace, co-authored by Arnold Rampersad.

While the Brewers were winning over a dozen in a row,
The Giants found themselves eating fetid dead crow.

Days after Milwaukee hammered Paul Skenes,
San Francisco meekly lost fourteen of fifteen.

As Wisconsin’s George Webb fed each fan a free burger,
NorCal fans lost appetite for baseball’s sweet fervor.

The Brew Crew’s confidence grew like a waxing moon.
With condolences, the Gigantes’ season waned too soon.

Tennis great Arthur Ashe brilliantly said,
In sports and in life, it’s all in your head.

Playoff-bound teams who remain in the chase
May find inspiration in Ashe’s Days of Grace.

“Momentary lapses of confidence . . . often prove disastrous.”
So do what it takes . . . get angry, stay focused, feel free to cuss!

“A few falling pebbles build into an avalanche.”
Just hit that ball with a bat lathed from a branch.

“Soon, victory is utterly out of one’s reach.”
Self-belief is a law one must never ever breach.

“One simply must not despair, even for a moment.”
For momentum is an elixir, powerful and potent.