‘You can’t see the cost of winning…lines on my forehead…my wife, daughter and son left behind’

“Glory years catch action shots / arm whips and body contortions / a human catapult / the backs of those cards / cite numbers / that tell stories of saves, wins, flags, records / handshakes, butt slaps, celebration mobs / you can’t see / the cost of winning / lines on my forehead under the hat / trench line between my eyes / you don’t see my wife, daughter and son left behind…”
A reader sent me an interesting poem by baseball player-turned poet Dan Quisenberry. Quisenberry was a dominant relief pitcher in the early ’80s who used an unusual, whip-like submarine delivery (pictured). In the latter stages of his career and after retirement he wrote poetry, publishing numerous poems. Tragically, he died of brain cancer at age 45. The poem below is “Baseball Cards.” To learn more, see Heather Henderson’s article Dan Quisenberry–In His Own Words. Baseball Cards By Dan Quisenberry that first baseball card I saw myself in a triage of rookies atop the bodies that made the hill we played king of I am the older one the one on the right game-face sincere long red hair unkempt a symbol of the ’70s somehow a sign of manhood you don’t see how my knees shook on my debut or my desperation to make it the second one I look boyish with a gap-toothed smile the smile of a guy who has it his way expects it I rode the wave’s crest of pennant and trophies I sat relaxed with one thought “I can do this” you don’t see me stay up till two reining in nerves or post-game hands that shook involuntarily glory years catch action shots arm whips and body contortions a human catapult the backs of those cards cite numbers that tell stories of saves, wins, flags, records handshakes, butt slaps, celebration mobs you can’t see the cost of winning lines on my forehead under the hat trench line between my eyes you don’t see my wife, daughter and son left behind the last few cards I do not smile I grim-face the camera tight lipped no more forced poses to win fans eyes squint scanning distance crow’s-feet turn into eagle’s claws you don’t see the quiver in my heart knowledge that it is over just playing out the end I look back at who I thought I was or used to be now, trying to be funny I tell folks I used to be famous I used to be good they say we thought you were bigger I say I was