英文小诗赏析：Baseball and Writing
by Marianne Moore(Suggested by post-game broadcasts)
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can
never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating
excitement—— a fever in the victim—— pitcher， catcher， fielder， batter. Victim
in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it
apply? Who is excited? Might it be I?
It's a pitcher's battle all the way——a duel—— a catcher's， as， with
cruel puma paw， Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate. (His
spring de-winged a bat swing.)
They have that killer instinct; yet Elston——whose catching arm has hurt
them all with the bat—— when questioned， says， unenviously， "I'm very
satisfied. We won." Shorn of the batting crown， says， "We"; robbed by a
technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions and modify
conditions， the massive run need not be everything. "Going， going . . . "
Is it? Roger Maris has it， running fast. You will never see a finer
catch. Well . . . "Mickey， leaping like the devil"——why gild it， although deer
sounds better—— snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest， one-handing
the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me. Assign Yogi Berra to Cape
Canaveral; he could handle any missile. He is no feather. "Strike! . . . Strike
two!" Fouled back. A blur. It's gone.
You would infer that the bat had eyes. He put the wood to that
one. Praised， Skowron says， "Thanks， Mel. I think I helped a little bit." All
business， each， and modesty. Blanchard， Richardson， Kubek， Boyer. In that galaxy
of nine， say which won the pennant? Each. It was he. Those two magnificent saves
from the knee-throws by Boyer， finesses in twos—— like Whitey's three kinds of
pitch and pre diagnosis with pick-off psychosis. Pitching is a large
subject. Your arm， too true at first， can learn to catch your corners——even
trouble Mickey Mantle. ("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher， Montejo!" With some
pedagogy， you'll be tough， premature prodigy.) They crowd him and curve him
and aim for the knees.
Trying indeed! The secret implying： "I can stand here， bat held
steady." One may suit him; none has hit him. Imponderables smite him. Muscle
kinks， infections， spike wounds require food， rest， respite from
ruffians. (Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk， "tiger's milk，" soy
milk， carrot juice， brewer's yeast (high-potency—— concentrates presage
victory sped by Luis Arroyo， Hector Lopez—— deadly in a pinch. And "Yes， it's
work; I want you to bear down， but enjoy it while you're doing it."
Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain， if you have a rummage sale， don't sell Roland
Sheldon or Tom Tresh. Studded with stars in belt and crown， the Stadium is an
adastrium. O flashing Orion， your stars are muscled like the lion.
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