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  • Paradise Valley, February 1981
  • Rick Burton (bio)

They laughed at him that daynot in his face, of course.Nothey waited until he leftthen shut the door and smirked.

No doubtthey’d seen his worn glovetorn red knapsackdangling white spikes.Still covered in midwestern mud.

I saw himretreat to the streetthat frying pan Friday.Dragging his facethrough the broken bottles and snot.

You could tell the way he movedbowlegged likehe had deep-in-the-hole range.Could cover groundbut the cut, well, that hurt like hell.

YeahI knew.Just by the way his old Brewers crownhung limply on his darkdirty head.

He couldn’ta been much more than twenty [End Page 3] sitting there next to the old tramp.Both of ’em. Dying.Right thereat a Phoenix bus stop.

Listening inlike a kid with a nine-volt transistor(trying to find Harwell in Detroitor Lloyd and Boudreau on WGN)I heard the truth.

The emperoron the benchtalking about railcars runs.On the Rock or Burlington Northern.Davenport, Des Moines, Denver.

The kid said he’d come for a shotat Billy Ball.But Number 1 was already goneAnd the A’s lady didn’t turn on the charm.She’d just said sorry, no tryouts.

It’s funnyhow the swamp grassin Paradise Valley turns brownin February.Starts fading. Dying.

I guessif the next Campaneris or Smithreally wanted ithe’da found Billy. Wouldn’ta short-hopped it.Woulda convinced him.

It’s true.“Juice” is King (in the land of palms).But royalty sleeps in double-door boxcarswhen the prince lacksbig league heart. [End Page 4]

Rick Burton

rick burton is the David B. Falk Professor of Sport Management at Syracuse University and former commissioner of Australia’s National Basketball League. His scholarship has appeared in NINE on previous occasions, including research pieces on Mark Twain and Stephen Crane and their relationship to baseball. His poetry has appeared in Nine Mile Magazine and Sport Literate.

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