The Royal Blue Dot From Space




(11.3.2015 No.168 —


By Steve Hermanos






From the International Space Station,

Looking down,

At the fat part of America,

In an expanse of post-harvest dirt,

At the center of a splatter of concrete,

Blooms a mass of Royal Blue;


A million fans in the plaza of a city of 1.2 million,

That’s a nice batting average;


Well they waited 30 years for this,

In a league of 30 teams;

It only seems fair;


Jonny Gomes,

Who grew up playing ball 30 miles from where I’ve typed,

All these poems,

Who came aboard the good ship Royals late-season,

Who didn’t play a moment of the post-season,

Who played only 12 games,

Takes an American flag and announces,


“Hey, guess what?

Cy Young winner,

Not on our team—

We beat him;


“Rookie of the Year,

Not on our team—

We beat him;


“MVP of the whole league—

Sorry guys, not on our team,

But we beat that guy too!…


“We whooped their ass!”








From Mesopotamia,

To Troy,

To Yorktown,

To Appomattox,

To the Yankees and Dodgers and Reds and Cardinals,

To the end of the year,

The harvest,

Your birthday,

It’s an easy thing to get behind,

A celebration;


Why can’t we celebrate—

Look, I didn’t burn the toast!

Little L. beat me in chess!

I got a new job that doesn’t suck!

I bought great underwear on sale for $7!

My car is still running!

I’m not sick anymore!

No one’s bothering me!

I’m in love with my wife!


Bring in the stage, the marching band, the microphone,

A party so humungous,

They can see it,

From the Space Station.




(10.30.2015 No.160 —

By Steve Hermanos


It’s taken all this time,

’til the bottom of the 6th inning of the 3rd game

Of the World Series,

And finally,

The Mets send up Juan Uribe to pinch hit,

Uribe who won it all with the White Sox in ’05;

Uribe who won it all with the Giants in ’10,

Leading them when young, fat Pablo Sandoval

Ate himself out of the lineup,


Who wears his gunked-up batting helmet,

At a rakish angle,

A huge chaw in his cheek,

And might as well be sporting a gold hoop earring,

An eye patch,

A scabbard won in combat;

The pitch is up and away,

Uribe slashes it to right,

Knocking in Juan Lagares,

Sending Wilmer Flores to 3rd;

Mets 6—Royals 3;

At first base, Juan Uribe claps his hands:

Take No Prisoners!

(Mets 9—Royals 3)

(Series: Royals 2—Mets 1)

—end of poem



(7.19 No.90 —

By Steve Hermanos

Painting the inside stairway,
I’m cool, while the sun bakes exterior surfaces,
Shirtless, lumpy, hairy,
No one in the house,
Listening to Mets Vs. Cardinals,
Going into Extras;

The Mets ’n Cards
Have played shift-long games,
Into the wee, murky hours,
Into delirium;

Wasn’t there a 25-inning game,
in the ’70’s?
A 20-inning game in the 2010’s?

The team emanating from the polluted swamps of Queens,
The team from The Exact Middle, the polluted Mighty Missip:
Together, America!

And as each step is painted,
In a greenish-taupe picked by Mrs. L.,
The Mets get a run in the top of the 13th;
The Cards tie it in the bottom of the 13th;
Inning after inning,
Juan Lagares goes 2 for 10,
Wilmer Flores is 3 for a zillion,
Lucas Duda is 0 for 7 with 2 walks,
Colton Wong is 1 for 8,
Pete Kozma 0 for 6;

Mets pitcher Jacob deGrom
Pinch hits,
Earns a walk;
The Cardinals’ Carlos Martinez,
A starter,
Is pitching the 15th, 16th, 17th;

The steps are done (the first coat)
And I’m swirling the off-white,
To touch up the banisters;

18th inning:
Mets’ Wilmer Flores singles;
Curtis Granderson singles;
Kevin Plawecki sac bunt, error by Carlos Martinez:
Bases loaded, no outs;
Ruben Tejada sac fly,

Mets 2—Cards 1;

Eric Campbell sac bunt,
Granderson scores;

Mets 3—Cards 1;

The Mets hold
The Cards in the bottom of the 18th,

And the Cards
Hit the showers,
The saline IVs,
Remaining the best team in baseball;

And the Mets,,
Ride the A/C bus to the airport,
Fly to D.C. first class,
Catapulting through the sky,
In victory,
To challenge the 1st-place Nationals;

If the Mets,
Play a meaningful game
In October,
They’ll point back at this sweaty game,
And I’ll remember the steps.

—end of poem



(6.09 No.64 — 162 Baseball Poems 2015)

By Steve Hermanos

I believe in celebrating every happy thing,
Trying not to let the bad stuff dominate;
So I’m sipping
My first cup of coffee
In three years,
Honoring last night’s Chris Heston no-hitter,
Chris Heston of the San Francisco Giants,
Vs. The Mets,
(Our offspring,
Left on the doorstep of Flushing);

Mets fans are whining,
About plate umpire Rob Drake’s,
Expansive strike zone,
And maybe they’re whining about Mets
100 MPH pitcher Noah Syndergaard’s
2-4 record, his 4.15 ERA;

Hopewell Junction New York’s Joey Panik,
Of the Giants,
Brought 100 fans,
And Manhattan’s Finnerty’s Bar
(Lovers of the Giants),
Brought a few hundred,
Lots of orange-and-black amidst
The Mets’ orange-and-(Dodger) blue;

Those hundreds erupted at Joey Panik’s
7th inning monster homer;
They drowned out Mets fans
Celebrating each Chris Heston out in the 8th,
And 9th;

And Mets fans, as most fans would,
As the outs mounted towards 27,
Came over to the orange side,
Cheering the potential
Historical mile marker,
“I Was There”;

Chris Heston,
Who was released by the Giants in 2013,
And when no team thought his potential worthy
Of the major leagues,
The Giants took him back;

Chris Heston,
Whose high school coach
Flew from Florida
To watch the game;

Chris Heston,
Who wouldn’t be on the team,
Except for Matt Cain’s mauled elbow;

Chris Heston,
Worthy of a Buster Posey end-of-game
As the team rushes from the dugout,
Mets fans exhult;

Let us celebrate,
These Giants,
The first team since the
’62-’65 Dodgers,
With 4 no-hitters in 4 years;

Didn’t those Dodgers have pitchers named
Koufax and Drysdale and Claude Osteen?

Didn’t they win multiple World Series?

And look,
There is Madison Bumgarner,
Smilingly standing to the side
Of the crowd around Chris Heston,
Bumgarner who pulled the Giants to
World Series glory,
Bumgarner, who was Sportsman of the Year;
He ain’t got no no-hitters.

—end of poem