My Casey Candaele poem

They say that great hitters are born, and never made. While most like a rainbow, the graceful confluence Of sharp convex vision and frictionless dexterity That defines a .370 hitter is nothing More than luck. Ted Williams will boast--as if were to him a self- Taught credit--that he saw the umber dot of spinning laces As the pitches barreled homeward. I am amazed, but not At Williams. Of course not; his birthdate showered him with stars. Casey Candaele's squat frame rests on slow Wheels. He's been known to slump

At the plate, and his arm launches no Bombs. Each spring he struggles for a job Against those cat-like rookies. But by Opening Day, He's earned the roster spot, and talent scouts wonder why. I know his pictures in the field decorate My scrapbooks, his jerky shoulders square to meet The grounder, his elbows locked, his taut wrists crossed At the crotch, and his glove at the precise Position between his legs he's learned one Hundred thousand times, these things still unnatural To him. You see it, see the internal force required Etched with sweat and labored instruction into his face. And then, beyond my snapshots, the motion never easy, But always quick, he coaxes the ball into his ungifted

Glove, and heaves the wooden throw in coached concentration; Another chance, another goddamned out. Avoid the Error; do the job; his grim unathletic Body once again having somehow shined With the sour intensity of pure effort, And the furnace blast of his rageful desire.

'89 ProCards Tuscon Toros # 197

93 Upper Deck # 294

CNN/SI'S Candaele page

Back to Astroland