Ever since poor old Chapman got beaned,
they'd been looking for something
to take the sheen off the ball,
so it wouldn't slip dangerously,
even fatally, from the pitcher's hand.
Then in '38, Lena Blackburn of the A's
found me in his favorite fishing hole
across the Delaware, I was the perfect agent:
smooth enough to buff the white to gray,
yet not harsh enough to scratch the leather.
Lena and his successor sent cans of me
to all the major league teams, and ever since,
every baseball has had my imprint.
I was there for Lou Gehrig's last hit,
and Jackie Robinson's first, Don Larsen's
perfect game, and Hammerin' Hank's
714th homer. I was there for Halladay's
two no-hitters, and Jeter's 3000th hit.
I'm part of the pregame ritual,
giving each ball a mud bath and a rub-down.
I'm a proud South Jersey native,
one without equal, never duplicated,
scooped up from a secret sweet spot
near the river, strained, cured and canned,
and sent to thirty teams who would never
start the game without me.

11/09/2013

Author's Note: Day 9 Prompt: Write a poem about an inanimate object.

Posted on 11/09/2013
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