My Marichal (A Poem)
A Brief Note On Juan Marichal
I couldn't help writing a poem about one of my childhood baseball idols, Juan Marichal. He was bigger than life when he pitched for the San Francisco Giants in the 60s. His leg kick was majestic, his side-arm delivery phenomenal. He was colorful, brash and at times, a little too aggressive. Even though I lived 3,000 miles away, he was with me in my childhood dreams. A baseball pitcher who dazzled the hitters of his time with a wide array of pitches and speeds. Even though he never won a World Series, he made it to the Hall of Fame in 1983 and made it into my permanent vault of baseball memories.
My Marichal
The long leg of Marichal
can’t kick
any higher,
any straighter.
The leg that seems to soar
into the universe
above the stadium,
birds dodging
lost in space.
Marichal's eyes, half closed
that seem to roll around
like marbles
in a children’s game.
Is he looking at me
is he looking at the stars
at the waves of fans
in the wooden seats,
people with hotdogs and popcorn
in their hands.
Marichal’s gyrating neck
like rubber
turns and bends
his head, loosely connected
by a thread,
a stat sheet full of K’s.
I see the shadow
of Marichal
reflected in my dreams
deep into my subconscious
below the surface,
below the level of the sea.
Marichal lives inside me
like a filament of memory
an illusion, ghost-like,
surreal
like a Dali melting baseball.
His shadow lurks
in the dark alley
in the dark halls
behind the glass
locked
in the Hall of Fame vaults.
As the baseballs fly and spin
at speeds faster than light,
curves through the strike zone—
it pops, burns a hole
in the cather’s mitt.
Balls travel over the seats
beyond the fences at Candlestick
even at AT&T Park
splashes
in the Bay
fished out by brave men
in boats, in fishnet sweaters
gently calling:
My Marichal, My Marichal.
