An Ode to Vada Pinson

An Ode to Vada Pinson

By Michael Brockley

The son of the centerfielder you think should be in baseball’s Hall of Fame autographs his father’s bobblehead doll for you in a museum in southern Ohio. Your first hero, Pinson, roamed the outfields of middle America where he outran Clemente’s gap shots and Aaron’s deep fly jacks. You treasured his baseball card in the Topps package you bought at Schlichte’s Grocery one summer afternoon. A five-tool star before the big league scouts began tossing the accolade around the hot stove league. Sports Illustrated never showcased his Oakland childhood. His high school trumpet chops. Whether he preferred Miles to Satchmo. Whether he doodled on napkins during long flights to the coast. The son signs his father’s name on the base of the souvenir. Pinson’s pose modeled from one of those cards you collected when you were ten. Bat cocked behind the All-Star’s left ear. His eyes focused on a pitch from Gibson, Spahn, or Koufax. When you tell the son his father deserves a plaque in Cooperstown, the man rises to shake your hand. You see #28 tripling in the bottom of the tenth with no outs and stealing home for the winning run.

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in Unbroken, The Thieving Magpie, and Last Stanza. Poems are forthcoming in Flying Island and the Indianapolis Anthology. Brockley is a lifelong baseball fan who has, in particular, followed the Cincinnati Reds since his childhood.