The Thrill of Victory, the Agony of Defeat

The Thrill of Victory, the Agony of Defeat

By Ken Weisner

Michael Yastrzemski, first game, May 25, 2019
                        for Allan and Stephen Kuusisto, Red Sox fans
                        and Bruce & Nathan Levinson, who were there
1.
In his first major league at-bat, what does Mike do? Digs in like he belongs, grandson
            of hall-of-famer Carl,
takes a couple called strikes, lays off a close one, spoils another, then shazaam! a
            bloop hit,
a dying quail to left and the crowd goes nuts. We’re witnessing history. Or what
            passes for it in baseball.
 
Immediately we’re on our feet and Mike, wide-eyed, stoked, aggressive, flying,
rounds first base right in front of us, everyone’s hands raised—
we’re watching his arrival, his first big-league hit.
 
This has been a bad year for the home team, and a very bad game as well, pretty
much over by the second inning. Mike is the new call-up,
blessed and saddled with his name—the glory of his grandfather.
 
*
So here’s what happens. Mike rounds first base a step too far—just a single step—
a little adrenaline-fueled bravado, maybe to see if the left fielder juggles it—after all,
that’s how you play the game; he’s 28, still a youngster, but old for a rookie.
 
Snake Swihart sees that extra step, short hops the ball in shallow left,
pumps a bullet behind Mike straight toward us so Yaz has to put on the breaks,
a blur of spinning cartoon legs now in reverse, a scramble, then a headfirst dive
            back to the bag,
 
but Swihart’s throw is a clothesline, on the money, and baby-faced Mike
is hung out, dead in the water, his dying quail, now a dead duck—
you’re OUT! howls the umpire, turns his back, walks decisively. Welcome to the
            big leagues kid.
 
*
Michael’s wife and family, even his mother, all in the stands, their joy even greater
            than ours
now heads-in-hands, groans—Mike has to stand up, dust himself off,
head back to the dugout where teammates will kindly, grimly, avert their eyes
 
while the Snakes tamp down their own guffaws,
still obliged to throw the ball back to the dugout for safekeeping,
the traditional trophy for a first big-league hit, like saving the corsage.
 
You keep it. On your mantle, in your trophy case. It’s for the ecstatic memory,
to keep the inner-movie of the special moment alive, forever.
But in this case, file it under comedy, Buster Keaton, the groom forgot the rings.
 
2.
So… actually Mike has a great game after that, two more hits and ever since, a
wonderful late-blossoming career. But what we’re left with from that day
is the five-part operatic sequence, squeezed into those ten seconds:
 
Yes, yes, yes, yes!
            no! no! no! no! —
oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—
 
This this this… is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen—
            Don’t laugh, don’t laugh. I said don’t laugh.
Such dignity! Be nice to the boy, stand, give a round of applause.
 
*
The human face & body can register all of these expressions
within a ten-second period. In a game so famous for humiliation,
this one was too good to be true, and those seats, just that once, right by first base.
 
For Mike, the mythic joy. The latent dream, realized. The brutal reversal, quick as a snake.
The initiation. The holding his head high.
No, we are not people to relish other people’s misfortune.
 
We are sympathetic to those who can never live up
to the expectations, the name. The hall-of-famer’s grandson failed magnificently,
held his head high and won our hearts. We loved him now.
 
*
So much comedy here! Of his name, impossible to spell.
Of the grandfather he can never remotely live up to.
Of his very late blooming.
 
Of his learning the hard way before all those eyes,
packed stadium, live TV. But let’s also be very clear
about one thing. Mike’s not dead. He didn’t take one step too far
 
from the curb—or the foxhole. Not mowed down
by a machine gun or a bus. It’s game day
vs. the Snakes, an operatic form.
 
Or consider the comedy of telling the story of that moment
forever, no matter your subsequent triumphs, of being roasted for it perpetually
by the people who love you.
 
 
3.
I do love writing the “Z” in his name. The core letter, the anchor
of the five on either side. A whole sports team of letters.
Zed at the core. You’re a true leader, Zed. You died out there.
 
Jastrząbki, a town of fifty people. In the district of Olsztyn,
They say one of the happiest places in Poland, traded over centuries
from the Teutonic Germans to the Russians to the Nazis to the Poles.
 
Michał Jastrzębski and Teofila Suchcicka , Josephine Mierzejewska ,
Michael Skonieczny , Eva K. Mezynieski.
I wonder if your grandfather felt he could ever live up to them.
 
Jastrzębski, a Polish name, from Jastrząb, hawk.
I see now it is the 2,789,887th most common surname of all.
And yet just as glorious as the name of any man, named after any bird.
 

NOTE: Carl Yastrzemski: (born 1939) US baseball player; known as Yaz; full name
Carl Michael Yastrzemski. With the Boston Red Sox from 1961 until 1983, he had
452 career home runs and 3,419 career hits. Baseball Hall of Fame (1989). Since
his first at-bat, Mike Yastrzemski was 12th in 2020 is OPS in all of major league
baseball and has established himself as a front-line major league baseball talent.

Ken Weisner, a sidearm pitcher, has published three books of poetry with Hummingbird Press, including Anything on Earth (2010) and Cricket to Star (2019). An SF Giants fan since age 7, Ken’s poems have recently appeared or are appearing this spring in Catamaran, Nine Mile, Monterey Poetry Review, Perfume River Poetry Review, Phren-Z, Xinachtli Journal, and others. Ken teaches writing and edits Red Wheelbarrow  through De Anza College. He co-teaches a poetry workshop at Salinas Valley State Prison and is on the board of Right to Write Press. Ken coordinates, with Poetry Center San José, the annual Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize—this year’s final judge, Juan Felipe Herrera. 

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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