[Editor's note: The following is a poem by local poet and San Francisco Giants fan, Elizabeth Chapman, in honor of pitcher Matt Cain's perfect game one year ago. Chapman read her poem on Marty Lurie's KNBR broadcast on Saturday morning.]
The Perfect Game: June 13, 2012
by Elizabeth Chapman
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The radio crackled to ultra-life
somewhere in the seventh inning when
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Gregor Blanco caught an improbable drive
the ball rising as if of its own will
into his glove
and the radio talk-show hosts who’d been
preening all day from the foggy groves
of the Olympic Club for the US Open
grew mad with jealousy * Matt Cain
threw up his arms because he knew
that a twenty-seven-batter game was now
possible Radio I said and was not
sorry about the cable TV I never got
hearing Dave Flemming implore If you’re
just tuning in PLEASE DON’T LEAVE US
growing up a trolley-ride from Fenway Park
I’ve always loved baseball which
was not encouraged in my family they
barely registered the fact if at all
I did take a leave for a while
when some sluggers’ grand-slam
false perfection turned me off
Anyway what one-time long ball
could equal the growing power the slow
electricity that doubled and tripled when
you knew they were totally attuned
this very-high priced pitcher
and the catcher back from a fractured
season Posey who Cain said he never not once
in 125 pitches shook off and the umpire
it did get close a couple times with a 3-2 count
in the late innings impartial but if he had
a choice he chose early a generous strike zone
they’d have traded the divots and fancy irons
for one seat in the bleachers
overlooking the avocado tree on the sod farm
they shear to keep a space clear for home runs
the Astros never came close to
fourteen strikeouts tied with Sandy Koufax
for that record one stat on KNBR a station
choking on them no time for those commercials
I know by heart Dignity Health and Mattress
Discounters not even time for the Chilton Auto Body
hit of the game those callers
so smooth when it’s time for a change
think Speedy Oil Change
at home with the French doors swung open
I keep them closed in daytime due to
the infernal and ceaseless construction
the whole five years I’ve lived here
I jacked up the volume needed an Alka Seltzer
two discs fizzing up fizzing up
it had been an annoying day
in an annoying week lawyer broker taxes if
that were my whole world I wouldn’t mind
running out of money I’d kill myself anyway
though that might be a little hard on my heirs
the scent of hot rosemary still blew in
as our prevailing northwest wind picked up
hearing those voices the crowd
collectively losing its mind 42,000 people all
of them standing up inhaling and exhaling
with the guy in the white home uni of the Giants
not caring then about the home at-bats
they had ten runs for heaven’s sake just
wanting the dratted batting part to be done
quick so the man they call The Horse he gets it done
John Wayne could go back to the hill
6 outs then 3 outs to go top of the ninth
I loved listening it had been the usual
dreadful day on the world news
Syria and political
sanctimony till HE GOT ‘IM
then after teammates poured over the rail
and dumped a bucket of water on Cain
and the pretty wife the kiss the dugout interview
before posing with the groundskeepers
one at a time when Jon Miller asked
How did you keep your command the announcers knew
even at 100 pitches he still had plenty in the tank
Cain knew he did too
like the moment Secretariat won the Belmont in 1973
for the Triple Crown the pitcher spoke from his art
I have no idea
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