Highways and Byways: A Bad Day for Casey

By Maik Strosahl

It’s baseball season! 
    I have mentioned before a favorite project I got to be involved with where our poems inspired by museum pieces were put on display along with the art pieces. This poem also was created from that walk through the now defunct National Art Museum of Sport in Indianapolis.
    Outside the main building was a courtyard containing a sculpture titled “Casey Stengel,” by Rhonda Sherbell. It captures the “Old Perfessor” toward the end of his career when he was the coach of the expansion New York Mets from 1962-65.
    The Mets were a replacement team for many New Yorkers after both the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants left for California. Casey was hired out of retirement to manage the team, but even with his winning reputation he could not lead the severely short-talented players to success.
    As with the sculpture, the poem attempts to capture the frustration of a successful player and manager leading a team that was going nowhere.

The kids out there today
could be his,
could be his grandkids,
thinking the Old Perfessor
just doesn’t know,
just doesn’t understand,
in spite of all the years
patrolling the outfield
with Brooklyn
all the way to the series,
Pittsburgh, Philly, Boston,
at the Polo Grounds of New York
where he played the series
two more times with the Giants,
winning in ’22,
then leading
the Dodgers, Braves, Yankees,
and seven more championships
as the skip before
getting stuck
with these lovable losers,
these Amazin’ Mets—
no, the old man
just doesn’t know,
just doesn’t understand.

The hands,
deep in back pockets,
holding himself back
from running to the mound
to yank the pitcher
who knows it all—
who knows nothing—
and fed a steady diet
of grapefruit fastballs
to their slugger
until one was crushed
and its seed became a bullet
squirting down
the right field line
for a stand-up double
and two more runs.

His stance,
leans toward the field—
always toward the field—
as the player inside
still longs to play,
still fights his old bones
for another chance
to get on the field
and who couldn’t do better
than these kids?
these know-it-all kids?

Can’t anybody play
this here game?

Maybe it is time to rest,
to leave the bench
to someone younger,
someone they will listen to.
Maybe it is time,
because these kids
just don’t know and today,
he just doesn’t understand.

Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there.