Study Poem III (Crim Law)

Well, I've gotten a good response from people popping in for the up-beat poems, so I thought I'd stick with that.  Apologies to Prof. Katyal; I can compile some poems which have stronger ties to crim law after the exam for anyone interested.  Also, let me take this pre-exam moment to plug Katyal's Crim Law class as a genuine learning experience.  We're probably worlds apart politically, but I've learned a lot from him; what better endorsement can you give?  If you're considering taking Crim Law next year, I'd recommend it.

I offer this non-crim law poem in homage to the first Red Sox v Yankees meeting this year.  Doug M. is back on the team to catch Wakefield; Damon is with the Yanks.  Should be an interesting game, one which I will not have time to watch.  Argh.

A word on the poet - William Matthews tragically died in 98 (I believe, could have been 97).  He was one of the best of his generation, and anyone interested learning about him ought to read his son, Sebastian Matthew's memoir, In My Father's Footsteps.  Seb's a poet himself. 

Masterful

They say you can’t think and hit at the same time,
but they’re wrong:  you think with your body, and the whole

wave of impact surges patiently through you
into your wrists, into the bat, and meets the ball

as if this exact and violent tryst had been a fevered
secret for a week.  The wrists “break”, as the batting

coaches like to say, but what they do is give away
their power, spend themselves, and the ball benefits.

When Ted Williams took – we should say “gave” –
batting practice, he’d stand in and chant to himself

“My name is Ted Fucking Ballgame and I’m the best
fucking hitter in baseball,” and he was, jubilantly

grim, lining them out pitch after pitch, crouching
and uncoiling from the sweet ferocity of excellence.

William Matthews