When I was fifteen, I started receiving letters from Division I baseball coaches about the possibility of joining them on such and such Elysian Field and helping the squad reach its goal, which

I trace the windup with my elbow, my arm like a wing
unfurling, red lace licking off my feathertips.

I’m not one of those guys who watches the ball launch
off the bat into the right field seats.

“I thought it was boring,” he told me, “partly because I'd just learned English. But learning the language and the terminology and how the game is played was the big change.”

You could tell Heather was a catcher by looking at her thighs, but she brought an infielder's mitt to the game that day.

Here in Philadelphia, there’s a comfortable familiarity in the air, a sense of impending mediocrity to which every lifelong Phillies fan has grown accustomed. The bandwagon is empty, the ride over.

David
Could be anyone by now. I hope he's okay. I hope they're all okay.

On 14 September 1990, Ken Griffey Sr. hit a home run, and Ken Griffey Jr., the very next batter, also hit a home run, making them the only father–son combo in Major League Baseball history to hit

I learned about @DidMetsLose2Day because someone I followed retweeted a post.

We were homeless. We stole blankets, sheets. We took provisions. We carried our houses inside us.

These Austrian cows
lying down vaguely chewing
grass what are they think

But I have a million lights
I have two million actually
A whole billboard

Every day after your aunt points a 9mm Smith and Wesson at your head, you think about holding one in your hands. You need to feel that weight. 

She wasn’t a real pretty girl, but it was Valentine’s and a Saturday night and we had booze.

We were in Hungary to see his grave, which I did not spit on, and I’m proud of myself for that.   

We are going to die still falling // for crap about berries, a glass of red wine. It could be worse.  We’re not suicidal, / smack fiends, Swazi.

At night, when everyone's gone, the dark looks like a scatter of tiny bullet holes above her desk in the shape of a heart.

Excise it.  Use a cheese wire . . . 

My man shocked me by pulling out dirty magazines with pictures of fat black women called Black Tail. He had had the mags concealed in an oversize manila envelope.

The Germans call it the downfall. The French call it sleep. The Polish just give you vague directions.