It was only in the fifth, when the game became official, that a certain announcer – who shall not be named – began to talk. It wasn’t Dennis Upperdeckersley, who has ended too many quality Cardinal pitching performances games in…
Author: olabner
Welcome! I've followed baseball since I was 8 years old and started this site to illustrate the beauty of the game in prose, poetry, and photography.
I have a Master's in Creative Writing at Missouri State University. For my thesis I wrote a collection of nonfiction micro essays about working in remote Alaska fishing lodges for five summers in my 20s.
After graduation I worked as a northern lights guide in Bettles, Alaska, for 8 months. You can find my favorite aurora photographs at bestnorthernlights.com
I am a freelance writer and photographer. You can find my portfolio at maryellenchiles.com
Will John Lackey take a breath? Will I? In 2006 I decided I might enjoy the playoffs, for the team of my heart made a run after escaping the regular season with a paltry 83 wins. They won the whole…
Somewhere on the screen of a smartphone, Charlie Morton began to lose control. Pittsburgh had to win, or face the the wild card playoff. Hell. In this case, a collection of baby bears. They haven’t grown up or they’d lose…
M: Moi. D: Demon. Clearly. M: Wild Card Playoff Game Demon, don’t tempt me with your ease: D: You’re already in the playoffs! Rest your starters! Eat, drink and be merry! M: Oh, I know, as sure as I know…
The pitcher is betrayed by a shortstop sweeping the dirt with glove, ball still spinning somewhere in the outfield grass. The run scores. The batter flies around first, then retreats back to the base, kicking the mud off his cleats….
I watched him start his swing, but I think I heard a POP first. My heart leapt within me. He followed through, hands dangling, bat in the dust. How did I know in half a second that this ball would…
Jason Heyward cheered from the cover of Sports Illustrated. There were only five or six copies remaining in the rack, fingerprints smudged on his shoes. Perhaps some deviant had reached for Heyward’s heel, only to be crushed by his metal…
He took a strike, and then he nearly swung through another. The ball just grazed his bat and fell somewhere beyond the chalk. The next one he would not miss. The next one he did not swing at, so indeed…
The runner spiked the second baseman, he did. The runner slid feet first with his metal cleats aimed at the poor fielder’s heart. And, that old runner had spent the better part of the afternoon sharpening the bottom of his…
I have returned to the center of the universe. It isn’t a bridge in Fremont. It is a place where the newspapermen write of Pete Kozma’s glove and Randy Choate arm. It is a place where the other state team;…