KNUCKLEBALL

KNUCKLEBALL

By Thomas Alan Orr

With gangster names the great deceivers come—
Spitter, Cutter, Splitter, Hanger, Slider—
and the strangest, weirdest one of all—Knuckler—
birthed, some say, in Indianapolis,
nineteen-ought-six, by Eddie Cicotte,
the kid they called “Knuckles,” for a pitch
the batter cannot find, floating,
dipping, in a way that defies nature,
a ball that moves without turning,
the seams catching air in crazy ways,
and slipping, slopping, across home plate
with a deft and daffy magic all its own.

We shun in life some things we love
in baseball—foolery, tricks, and misdirection—
the brilliant legerdemain of Niekro, Hough,
and Wakefield. Yes, and if Cicotte
crossed the line between the game and life,
when the Black Sox traded glory for cash
and lost the World Series by design,
then let him be redeemed by this,
that he gave the game something better:
the passion of the perfect pitch,
the deep mystery of a knuckleball in flight,
on greener grass, in brighter sun.

Thomas Alan Orr raises Flemish Giant rabbits on a farm in Indiana. His most recent collection is “Tongue to the Anvil: New and Selected Poems.” He is a lifelong Red Sox fan.

Elliot Lin is a college student who spends their free time musing about sports and how they shape or reflect identity. You can find their other baseball-related illustrations here, or on Twitter @hxvphaestion and Tumblr.

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