By Charles Ghigna
In memory of Jack Marsh, second baseman, Yale University, 1943
Before the bayonet replaced the bat,
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;
his spikes anchored into the August clay,
his eyes set deep against the setting sun.
The scouts all knew his numbers well,
had studied his sure hands that flew
like hungry gulls above the grass;
but Uncle Sam had scouted too,
had chosen first the team to play
the season's final game of '44,
had issued him another uniform
to wear into the face of winter moon
that shone upon a snowy plain
where players played a deadly game,
where strikes were thrown with each grenade
and high pitched echoes linger still,
beyond the burned out foreign fields
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,
young Jack Marsh is rounding third,
and sliding, sliding safely home.
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I did not have a very eventful Thursday, though the weather was gorgeous so I did visit two parks...fine, I was looking for Piplups and Starlys as well as enjoying the autumn. One was a park I'd never been to before, but it was on the way to Bed, Bath & Beyond to look for a tablecloth that might keep cat claws in check, and my friends were raiding there.
When I got home, I negotiated with the aforementioned cats to stop clawing the dining room table and did some photo organizing while I have coupons to print them. We're watching the Red Sox about to clinch a trip to the World Series and delight Paul's parents so I will be brief; here are photos of the raptor show with the falconer at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire:
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