Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WHEN FATHER PLAYED BASEBALL, by EDGAR ALBERT GUEST Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The smell of arnica is strong Last Line: The day he played baseball. Alternate Author Name(s): Guest, Eddie Subject(s): Baseball; Fathers & Sons; Sports | ||||||||
The smell of arnica is strong, And mother's time is spent In rubbing father's arms and back With burning liniment. The house is like a druggist's shop; Strong odors fill the hall, And day and night we hear him groan, Since father played baseball. He's forty past, but he declared That he was young as ever; And in his youth, he said, he was A baseball player clever. So when the business men arranged A game, they came to call On dad and asked him if he thought That he could play baseball. "I haven't played in fifteen years," Said father, "but I know That I can stop the grounders hot, And I can make the throw. I used to play a corking game; The curves, I know them all; And you can count on me, you bet, To join your game of ball." On Saturday the game was played, And all of us were there; Dad borrowed an old uniform, That Casey used to wear. He paid three dollars for a glove, Wore spikes to save a fall; He had the make-up on all right, When father played baseball. At second base they stationed him; A liner came his way; Dad tried to stop it with his knee, And missed a double play. He threw into the bleachers twice, He let a pop fly fall; Oh, we were all ashamed of him, When father played baseball. He tried to run, but tripped and fell, He tried to take a throw; It put three fingers out of joint, And father let it go. He stopped a grounder with his face; Was spiked, nor was that all; It looked to us like suicide, When father played baseball. At last he limped away, and now He suffers in disgrace; His arms are bathed in liniment; Court plaster hides his face. He says his back is breaking, and His legs won't move at all; It made a wreck of father when He tried to play baseball. The smell of arnica abounds; He hobbles with a cane; A row of blisters mar his hands; He is in constant pain. But lame and weak as father is, He swears he'll lick us all If we dare even speak about The day he played baseball. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPORT STORY OF A WINNER by GLYN MAXWELL WOMAN SKATING by MARGARET ATWOOD FISHING IN WINTER by RALPH BURNS CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH JACKIE ROBINSON by LUCILLE CLIFTON FOR THE DEATH OF VINCE LOMBARDI by JAMES DICKEY THE DEATH OF THE RACE CAR DRIVER by NORMAN DUBIE |
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