Rollie Sheldon holds a wristwatch to his ear.
Ralph Houk leans in to “help him listen.”
Behind the crowds and springtime pepper,
they hear the sound time used to make in 1961.
It seems to please them, Rollie especially,
who must have thought he had a lot of time in 1961
when he went 11-5 in his new Yankee pinstripes,
fresh from college and D-League ball.
The year Roger Maris sent those 61 dogs hunting.
Time had a satisfying sound that summer.
John Blanchard got more playing time.
The time was right for setting records
that might last for quite some time.
Mickey, Ellie, Tony, Whitey—their timing
was right that summer, when time
seemed in suspension, measured only in innings
that were themselves subject to no clock
that wasn’t wound by strong arms and gutsy fielding.
Ford Frick and endless talk of longer seasons
worked overtime to spoil Roger’s record.
He could see it coming (he had good eyes).
Mick, of course, was always ready for the worst,
waiting on aching legs for injury’s alarm,
spending the money he saw no point
in saving for some other time,
while Bobby prayed and Yogi joked,
and hot Rollie’s watch ticked and ticked.
One evening, late in the season, running
out of time like running out a pop fly—
futility at war with hope, and nothing to be done about it—
Roger called time
at Tiger stadium, stepped out of the box
to watch a flock of Canadian geese
fly across the face of the sky’s cool, luminous dial.