Overview

Dive into this sports-themed collection and you'll quickly become a fan, as our poets relive their glory days and share their love of the game. Whether you're a competitive athlete, a dedicated amateur, or an armchair quarterback, we invite you to the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat--it's all here between these pages. On your mark, get set. Go! Contributing Poets Around the Globe Include: Alan Catlin - Alan Robert Proctor - Amie Sharp - Amy Miller - Anne Harding Woodworth - Barbara A Meier - Bill Cushing - Bill Frayer - Brigitte Goetze - Brittney Corrigan - Carolyn Dahl - Carolyn Martin - Charles Halsted - Christopher Scribner - Claire J. Baker - D.R. James - David E. Matthews - Devon Balwit - Diane Averill - Diane de Echeandia - Don Thompson - Donna Prinzmetal - Dwayne Brenna - Emily Waters Shearer - Eric Forsbergh - Gina Forberg - Gretchen Fletcher - Hannah Jane Weber - Jacob Miller - Jamie Brian - Jan Haag - Jeffrey Hantover - John Herold - Joseph Ridgway - Joshua Plack - Joy McDowell - Judith Terzi - Karen Poppy - Karla Linn Merrifield - Kris Demien - Linda Neal Reising - Livia Meneghin - M.G. Stephens - Marc Meierkort - Margaret Chula - Margaret DeRitter - Margaret R. Sáraco - Margaret Van Every - Marjorie Moorhead - Matthew Harrison - Michael Estabrook - Michael Fedo - Naila Claudia Schulte - Neil Creighton - Nils Nelson - Patrick Swaney - Paul Glenn - Penelope Scambly Schott - Peter M. Gordon - Phyllis Wax - Ralph La Rosa - Rick Kempa - Robert Beveridge - Robert Walton - Roger Sippl - Ron L. Dowell - Scott F. Parker - Scott M. Bade - Sharon Wood Wortman - Stephen McGuinness - Stuart Forrest - Stuart Gunter - Toni Partington - Tony Gloeggler - Tricia Knoll - Victoria Stefani - Vivienne Popperl

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"Sample Poems: The Baseball Player Stephen Crane by Alan Catlin ""I did little work at Syracuse, but confined my abilities such as they were, to the diamond."" Stephen Crane Manny French's fastball rocked him back on his heels but Crane refused to wear the padded glove for catching. Although his hands would be red from the constant impact of the hard ball, bruised after nine rounds of catching, his expression never changed and his enthusiasm for the game never waned. Jumping up after each third strike, although his hands were numb and his arm weak, he would throw the ball down to third as hard as he could. Never a strong hitter, he was a capable one, even shrewd in his placement, making the most of what he had with an energy level that would compensate for the lack of raw talent. After every game he was the first man at the pool hall for a beer and eight ball, preferring as he would later, a famous writer, the talk of the tavern to that of the literate man. Education, he felt, was better learned on the ball field, attributing his knowledge of war to what he saw on the baseball field, time clearly well spent for a man who memorialized a war he never saw. More Than Sport by Margaret Van Every It was sport and more than sport. It was do or die when we were young and fit and drove ourselves to beat all others to the finish. It was sport but more like life or death to rise before the light and polish off the miles beneath the moon before we went to work. If we succumbed to sloth and stayed in bed, the competition wouldn't. They'd be up and at it, gain split seconds on us, beat us by a hair. Ah, but we weren't beating them, we were beating age, for we looked younger than our peers, we had joints of steel, the drive of turbines. We were tough, believed we'd last forever. We had records, medals, trophies, clippings. Years of pounding pavement, swimming laps, pedaling miles, lifting iron. And what did it get us? Bionic knees, injured shoulders, repetitive strain and pain, back and neck gone bad, dusty trophies and medals laid curbside, records smashed by younger and swifter who rose earlier and risked even more than we. And none of us ever ask why."

Sample Poems: The Baseball Player Stephen Crane by Alan Catlin I did little work at Syracuse, but confined my abilities such as they were, to the diamond. Stephen Crane Manny French's fastball rocked him back on his heels but Crane refused to wear the padded glove for catching. Although his hands would be red from the constant impact of the hard ball, bruised after nine rounds of catching, his expression never changed and his enthusiasm for the game never waned. Jumping up after each third strike, although his hands were numb and his arm weak, he would throw the ball down to third as hard as he could. Never a strong hitter, he was a capable one, even shrewd in his placement, making the most of what he had with an energy level that would compensate for the lack of raw talent. After every game he was the first man at the pool hall for a beer and eight ball, preferring as he would later, a famous writer, the talk of the tavern to that of the literate man. Education, he felt, was better learned on the ball field, attributing his knowledge of war to what he saw on the baseball field, time clearly well spent for a man who memorialized a war he never saw. More Than Sport by Margaret Van Every It was sport and more than sport. It was do or die when we were young and fit and drove ourselves to beat all others to the finish. It was sport but more like life or death to rise before the light and polish off the miles beneath the moon before we went to work. If we succumbed to sloth and stayed in bed, the competition wouldn't. They'd be up and at it, gain split seconds on us, beat us by a hair. Ah, but we weren't beating them, we were beating age, for we looked younger than our peers, we had joints of steel, the drive of turbines. We were tough, believed we'd last forever. We had records, medals, trophies, clippings. Years of pounding pavement, swimming laps, pedaling miles, lifting iron. And what did it get us? Bionic knees, injured shoulders, repetitive strain and pain, back and neck gone bad, dusty trophies and medals laid curbside, records smashed by younger and swifter who rose earlier and risked even more than we. And none of us ever ask why.

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