Sunday, March 18, 2018


I've got an Irish name, but I've never been there.
In fact, over there I understand it's a boy's name--
mom and dad were expecting such. Surprise, surprise!
See, I was contrary from the get-go. 

I've got Irish all up and down one side of the tree--
they'd sell ya a car with no wheels 
and you'd thank them, smile, and miss them after they were gone
with your cash in their pocket.

Don't be bitter when you read that, they're none the richer for it by now.

The other side of the tree is stodgy English.
All they'd do is frost the windows with their personalities,
take a fearless and searching moral inventory of everybody else,
and petrify from excess of reserve.

Guess which side I take after? Aw, Daddy, you're always the one.

When I was young--just a lass...joost a's that? Oh shut up.
Anyway, there was this man, James, who could drink as much as I could,
was ten years older than me and knew the Poets. 
He'd been all around the world.

I was with him in Detroit, in Texas, in Manila and in Denver.
We wandered through St. Louis and New Orleans, drunk as ducks.
One day, he disappeared, nobody knew where, and I never heard from him again.
Thanks, James, even so. Here's a half-Irish smile for ya. I miss you.

And thanks for not going into my bag--you'd have found the pawn ticket
for my Claddagh ring because I had to feed the stray I'd fallen for.

for Weekend Challenge "Blarney Me."


Saturday, March 17, 2018

Emblem & Anthem

The streets are full of emblem and anthem.
The sky is gray and slack as a dead man's face.
Megaphones are a needle in the brain
delivering seizure and sanctimony.
Behold our enemies, the ghost and pipsqueak
Writ Large, melting eyes to roiling goo.
All hail our emblem and anthem,
jingoist putrefaction turned glittering bauble.

A Friday 55 for our Witchy hostess.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Love Letter From A New York Girl Stuck In Texas


I'm so glad that this has reached you--and that you wanted to open it and read my words, as you used to love to do. Maybe things haven't changed so much, after all?

I won't say "wish you were here" and I wouldn't will it so, even if I had a genie on my shoulder taking down every word. But I am with know that, yes? Even still?

I'm thinking, tonight, of a song you once played for me on the phonograph--you with your vintage records you love so much. It was called "Don't Get Around Much Anymore." Do you remember? And do you recall how I wouldn't believe you that it was "The King of the Blues" singing it? It sounded so old-timey. You had that sparkle in your eye and your lips turned up at one corner, it amused you so, knowing you were right all along. How I insisted! I'm a silly goose, darling. 

Tell me, sweetheart, is it evening as you read this? Have you had a nice meal, are you feeling content? I want you to be, even if you don't believe it. (I can grin that Cheshire grin at you too, you know!) Even though it's late here--nearly midnight--I am only now sitting down. I'm having crab cakes with baby carrots, plus Raisin Rum Cake for dessert. Yes, your favorite--I specifically put in my request for it, in your honor. You say I always get what I want--not always, I'm afraid, mon coeur. Not always. In spite of all my best efforts.

Well, sweetie, the time has flown and I need to get this into an envelope for you. They don't let us seal them, did you know that? I hope they don't undo my best intentions by redacting the heart of all I've said. I love you, I love you, I love you. There. They can't black out all three, can they?

Please forgive me, mon petit coeur, for anything I may have done to offend you...ever. It would mean so much to me if you could. That girl, she was coming between us, ruining everything, and the thought of losing you made me not myself. Blame it on that Other Me, won't you? Could you? I won't beg--I know you like me best when I'm all devil-may-care, and I promise to try to be that way from now on. I'll pretend I'm only visiting the doctor, getting a routine inoculation so that our next weekend won't be ruined by me sniffling and honking like a sea bird. All right, off I go any minute now..."down under" let's call it. That sounds so much better, yes? "Tie me kangaroo" Poor kanga. 

Forgive me. Don't forget me. Be glorious, for us both, all right? 

All my love,


This letter inmate-generated from Mountain View Women's Correctional Facility, Gatesville Texas. Contents have been screened. Recipient is advised to view all such correspondence as being possibly coercive, manipulative or false.

For "dear poems" at Real Toads.  


Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Poem About A Cat & A Blue Fence

As if, having scaled the sky,
he had stopped to gloat
there above my head
with the afternoon sun behind him.

Cat, gamboling among the gods,
are there fish in the sky?
or must you bargain with the deep
for your dinner so desired?

Cat-stronaut, glide down and grant me a boon.
Tell me, how is it when trees become fences,
fences become divine
and cats-turned-to-birds appear at my toe tip

with eyes the color of the Aegean?


Friday, March 9, 2018

Her Real Name Was Lexi

In a classic case of form over function,
Doctor Dal Canton transplants a candy heart into Sugar, the topless dancer.

It melts immediately, as did Doctor D. upon seeing her the first time,
up there,
like an aspiration.

Later, in custody, Doctor D. insists
that it is his heart which is broken. 

Authorities disagree,
punishing doubly, sleeping well.

a flash 55 for my BFF. It's 55 words if you always count the doctor's name as one word.

A free ankh for anybody who catches on to what I'm actually saying here. 

Saturday, March 3, 2018

Ditch Diggers

Ditch diggers make fine lovers
if you can put aside all that fussy shit you love so well.
They don't bring flowers
or some stupid-ass wine;
they bring shovels that scratch the wood of the floor and the wall
when they prop them there 
to hold you 
like flotsam after a shipwreck.

Ditch diggers don't fuck around. 
They get right down to it
and could care less about the shams or the thousand count sheets.
Grit is good, 
shut up and kiss your ditch digger, girl.
Learn to love the sweet earth smeared across the queen size.
Ditch diggers get up early,
do what needs done;
come nightfall, they sleep righteous right next to you
and don't listen to you yap about your classes or your bullshit.

Go down, girl
to the new roadway in the rain.
Meet that ditch digger's eyes.
Then go home, leave the door unlocked.
The world will never miss the poem you would have written
tonight at your tidy desk
wearing your white dress
like a bride stood up and shamed despite all her careful preparations. 

for Camera FLASH.

Note For No One

Here is my note for no one,
a boot undone
in the flower bed 
by the path.

Here is my letter that isn't there
forgotten on the stair
of an empty house
in afternoon.

The coffee is cold, the pen is dry,
the sun-slant hours idle by
like dolls upon a sill
that softly mummify. 

another 55.

Friday, March 2, 2018


It snowed.
People left for work with wipers and defrosters going,
came back shimmying up the street, 
wheels scrambling and bulling their way up the drives. 

I put on coffee, watched movies,
stared at the thick flakes in the shifting wind outside.
Trees bore it, branches burdened low,
slung by a stationary gust called ice. 

a 55.


Thursday, March 1, 2018


1. IT'S ALIIIIVE! Make *everything* alive. Sighing hearts, weeping skies, smiling trees, warbling coffee tables, all of these are good, and will make your poem both busy and awful. Whee!

2. STOP DROP AND ROLL Use "burning" and all its variations liberally. Burning lips, fiery fingertips, barbecued bosoms--go for it, Sparky, and you'll have one smoking pile-up of a poem.

3. LET'S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN And again and again. Be sure to use antiquated, flowery contractions like "e'er" and "ne'er" as often as possible. Pretend it's 1750 again. Use a quill pen. Die of some extinct plague like cholera. Please. Right now.

4. FORMALITY IS NEXT TO BANALITY Sprinkle your love poem with lots of comically overstuffed words like "dost" and "thee." Wear a hoop skirt or frilled sleeves. Get run over by a horse and carriage. Do it for literature.

5. BEGINNER'S LUCK Forget what you've heard and write about what you don't know. Make it clear you've never so much as held hands, but have decided to compose passionate odes to breathless desire. Or, if you've sampled the entire Boston Symphony Orchestra, write something fluttery and virginal. Go for it! Use your imagination!

6. GO WITH OLD RELIABLE Finally, don't give yourself a headache trying to jam clever words and phrases into your awful love poem. Go with moon/June, love/dove, palpitate/regurgitate and before you know it, you'll be employed by a greeting card company. Good luck, writers!

Saturday, February 24, 2018

My Sweet Sixteen ( A Personal Best Of )

Dear Readers, it's the 10 year anniversary of Word Garden.

I have been writing and posting on this blog since 2008, and for two years before that elsewhere. Even prior to that, in my younger incarnation as a writer, my work appeared in a few dozen journals.I thought it might be time to make up this list of the sixteen of my own poems that I am most proud of and pleased with. I'll list them in ascending order, with some thoughts about each one and a link to the full poem. (Clicking will open the poem in a new window.) I hope you enjoy them.

16. Beeville (2/21/09)  Always, I have liked to write prose poems that tell stories. In this poem, I have combined my love of small Midwestern towns, girls' and women's sports, and storytelling. 

15. Lady Franklin Bay (2/7/11)  I have written several poems about Arctic explorers and on far northern themes. Most of them are longer story poems, but this one is short, and uses the Greely expedition into the Canadian Arctic in 1881-1884 as a metaphor.

14. An American Girl In The IRA (1/25/16)  I made a trip abroad in 2009 and had a horrible experience which left me with a jaundiced eye for all things English. I combined that with my penchant for creating outsider characters, and the result was this. 

13. Decompensation (12/3/10)  Sometimes I know right away that something I've written is good, and then other times--like with this poem--I don't. Over time, though, I liked this one more and more. Decompensation is a medical term denoting the breakdown of a system that had been working but which breaks down due to stress. Thus, my homeless lady trying to hang on to something good in spite of everything.

12. Vantului (11/24/11)  Pestera Vantului is a wind cave in Romania. Those of you who read my stuff know that  have an unexplained fondness for things eastern European. This poem uses the wind caves to talk about a feeling of approaching mortality.

11. The Witch In Springtime (5/4/10)  I was going through a dry spell with my writing and had experienced some relationship disappointments, so I wrote this poem about a Witch who's lost her powers.She is feisty, though, and the fact that the poem title denotes "springtime" probably says that her struggles with ice and winter detritus is temporary.

10. No Matter (4/12/16)  I posted this under the title "Singer & Song", which I later changed to "No Matter" when I included it in my book Catechism For A Girl On Fire. It's just a love poem that says, no matter what, I will be there.

9. The Hill is Closer To Heaven  (2007?)  Although I posted this poem to my blog in May of 2008, it is older than that. I wrote it in 2006 or 2007. It's a very simple love poem, but it remains a special favorite of mine. The person I wrote it for seemed naturally good to me, "closer to Heaven." I still think she is. 

8. While Pouring Coffee (5/3/15)  I would be remiss if I didn't include a flash 55 poem. It's more than that, though. When I was younger, I went out into the world. Now that I am older, I find that it more often comes to me. Oddly, I don't think that's what I was after when I wrote it, and it has been edited a bit from its original version--improved, I think.

7. Fire (7/15/10)  This was a reminiscence, about something that happened when I was young. We didn't actually crash into a tree; we miraculously stopped about an inch short of it. We did have to call a tow truck. 

6. Rose (12/12/15)  I think that this is the best rhyming poem that I have ever written.  I was thinking about the death of a very young child. 

5. Heaven (6/30/14)  I find that the love poems (of my own) that I like the best over time are the easy breezy ones more than the overwrought ones. Though we like to say we're going to feel a certain way, or do a certain thing in the future, really who knows? All we can do is love today and head in a direction that feels right. 

4. The Cherub Of Pierzanie Prison (6/21/14)  "Pierzanie" is a Romanian word for "perdition." I stole the idea of the cherub from a remaindered novel called "The Building" by Thomas Glynn. He opens the novel by describing a cherub statue in a trash-strewn apartment building courtyard with an upside-down shopping cart draped over its head. I took that and ran with it. While the novel is blackly humorous, my poem is about needing love despite all the shit that rains down sometimes, and despite our own flaws. 

3. Love Poem For K. (2/13/12)  I'm very proud of this poem. Writing something complex, simply, is a hard thing to do, and this one time I think I got it absolutely right. Sometimes a thing or a person doesn't seem to fit in our lives and yet they keep on appearing as if to say that they do, after all.

2. God & Eros (6/2/11)  I have tried many times to write about my childhood, but this poem is far and away the best of them, except for the one that follows. "Playing church, I lied" is one of my favorite lines I have ever put down. When one is denied one place, one looks elsewhere, and  I did. 

1. The Far Garden (12/27/10) One of the things I recall most vividly about my childhood is the little patch of garden way in the back of the yard which had strawberry and mint planted there. I was always out of doors, wandering, and was always very curious about myself and about the world, as I still am today. However, answers weren't forthcoming when I asked questions, back then. Somehow, though, I kept that wandering, curious spirit alive. It is there in every poem I write.

Catblossom and her associate editor Crackblossom don't think anything I have ever written is anything but "tiresome claptrap and derivative drivel." I hope you disagree with them! ;-)

Friday, February 23, 2018


The sky couldn't hold it together anymore.
You think it's just always there, 
full of stars and big honking planets,
light, every kind of bird,
the freaking sun for goodness sake.

That's woman's work, babe. 

But I knew. She'd been gray for days.
Unwind, girl.
Close your eyes, shake out your hair.
Let go.


 A 55 for my BFF at Verse Escape.

It's raining here today. Zacky Peanut and I are fine with it!


Thursday, February 22, 2018

Internal Injuries

I hear dead people.
1965 continues endlessly,
elms rustling in summer breeze,
baseball and Beatles cards spread on the sidewalk still,
screen doors and monarch butterflies fragile but immortal.
You can stop now
(don't stop)
you can stop

Don't listen. 
Drop the sound out.
Roll with it if you can.
This house has been on fire for decades, why panic now? 
I hear dead people,
jumped up from eternal rest or damnation
telling me what they always told me:
child, you're fucked, and it's your own damn fault.
Can I stop hearing it now?
Can I stop living
(don't stop)
or start?
(don't start with me)

1965 continues endlessly,
elms rustling in the summer breeze. 

for Poem As One-Sided Conversation at Toads.



Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Marbled Blue

In a garden on the gray side of a dream I can't remember
Crows with beaks of marbled blue strut coolly to defend their
Claim upon what's yours and mine abandoned on a leaf's edge
With signature in red and gold on dawn's black-winged assemblage.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Getting Out The Hand Puppets

Well aren't WE the fussy bitch?
Silent treatment nothing,
I sent you a message in a bottle.

NOW you tell me it has to be an EMPTY bottle. 

So the message is the medium.
Read between the smears, sound it out,
work with me here, don't be so impossible.

"Smxxf bpht cgalpr." Got it? DUH.

a belated flash 55 for my BFF.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

JAMA to this, motherfuckers

I had a little ache in the heart,
and so sought the cure prescribed in pop songs
with you
and you
and you
and you
and you.
Results ranged from muttered obscenities Q 2 hours as needed
to inability or disinterest in getting out of bed, observed for up to 3 months.
In sum, none of it was worth
the elevated heart rate, 
the altered mood,
the little swimmy endorphins which followed my boat after you'd been aboard.
all of you may kindly fuck off.

Contrary data poured in in response:
"She is mercurial, alternately combative or child-like,
not as interesting as she seems at first,
too solitary, talks everything to death, 
writes those god damn poems afterward."
They allowed as to how I could kindly fuck off as well. 

Too bad
that we arrived exchanging charm and kindness,
only to follow the usual course of dis-ease
to a trading of vitriol and silence.
The good news is
that we are immune now,
free to walk again among men (or women) without fear or hope, either one.
Dig my dead smile
promising nothing,
desiring nothing,
done and cured after all,
patient X back at ground zero, sick of love but medically cleared--
a success story in journals that do not publish poetry.

for "Love Hurts" at Toads.


Saturday, February 10, 2018

The Ballad of Miroslav Barinsky

Miroslav Jubert Hans Barinsky
was fond of candied apricot whiskey
and drank so much, so cheerfully, so often
that they stuffed six bottles into his coffin
then down the side of a mountain on skis
they sent it, helped by sail and breeze
past the graveyard and off a cliff 
poor Miroslav...come to this. 

a silly 55 for my BFF.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Tell Me No

Tell me no and all I hear is the 
ocean roll and sway in my ear
tell me no
but I'm deaf to reason.

Tell me go and I'll go until the lights
fade low and the moon shines mad
tell me go
but I'm blind to reason.

The stair is dark as a plum is cool
the rail is smooth as your naked skin
tell me no
but with a tongue you know I'll understand.

finding some Bits of Inspiration on the stairway (to Heaven.)

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Of Course Of Course

They'd come a long way just to see him, these believers.
"Everybody has done us dirt--
taken our shop, our church, our children right off of our laps."

They'd hung on for a long time,
getting angrier every year.
"Where are we supposed live?
What has happened to the world, while we were working?
Who are these strangers?
Does anybody care how we feel?"

All they ever got was:

Look certainly at the end of the day freedom constitution committee values God tradition questions concerns contribution stand for investigation thorough Americans protect promise taxes statement position this office bluh-blah bluh-blah bluh-blah. 

So they voted for someone else.

They'd come a long way just to see him, these believers,
only to find the barn door closed
and Wilbur under investigation and under house arrest.

They can hear him talking (and talking and talking),
but he's turned the wrong way, this equine head in the bed of state,
just a new horse's ass doing all the speechifying now.

for Camera FLASH! at Toads.


Saturday, February 3, 2018

A Pyromaniacial Glossary

You likely think living in a burning building is a temporary thing. 
No. It's a lifestyle unchosen--a birthright.
Nothing gets old here, that's true--
everyone wears the latest oily rags.

Kiss me, taste my turpentine lip gloss.
True love for ten minutes, 
then a hundred alarms,
a million exits.

Containment? Oh fuck, you're funny.

for Friday 55.


Thursday, February 1, 2018

Michigan Green Cab--A Eulogy

Dante was a cab driver.
He didn't have a lot to say--
pretty silent like the front coming in
or the energy efficient cab he drove.  

Dante kept a log--
place and time of pick-up,
place and time of drop-off,
miles traveled,
a whole day's work in neat lines and figures. 

Some drivers ask people questions,
talk about the sports teams,
or swing their arm across the back of the empty front passenger seat,
about an inch from your knees.
Some show up early, when you're still hopping around
with a heel in one hand and your phone in the other.
Others worry you, 
stopping for coffee or Red Bull,
showing up late and putting you past your time.

Dante liked living on his own,
down the block from the car wash.
No wife telling him to turn off the tv
or saying "we have to talk." 
No kids squabbling, bringing home trouble.
Nobody dropping in unannounced.

Every day, the roads could be depended upon
to be where they were the day before:
Walter P. Reuther Expressway,
Southfield Road,
Woodward Avenue,
8 Mile Road, Detroit side, suburb side.

He had a schedule--
don't ask him to switch shifts.
He had his log book
and lunch at 1 o'clock.
Last run as the sun goes down,
earth spinning slowly, 
dispatch taking the calls.

Dante will be glad enough to see Jesus, I expect,
as long as He has the good sense to ride quiet
and know where he wants to go.

for Izy's Out of Standard challenge--Eulogy For A Stranger

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

The Slats Stuffenberger Story

Today, not many people remember the story of Sigmund "Slats" Stuffenberger, a major league baseball player of the 1950's. Other things command our attention, such as earning a living, watching "Celebrity Karaoke" or fighting corruption charges in federal court. 

But Slats's story is worth remembering. Born in Pigslop, Kansas in 1935, Slats was named Sigmund by his father, a poor but hard-working tenant farmer who admired 19th and early 20th century Austrian academics. Slats's father, Bifford "Pea" Stuffenberger, had high hopes for his only son to become a concert pianist, but young Sigmund wanted only to play big league ball.

Sadly saying their goodbyes on a train station platform in Phlebitis City, in the rain, wearing torn coats, and not having bathed in weeks, the elder and younger Stuffenbergers parted and Sigmund rode the train to Corn Corners, which at the time had its own Class D team, the Corn Corners Shuckers.

Shuckers skipper Ernest "Mad Dog" Mumford didn't think much of the green kid fresh off the farm, and refused to play him at all until the day when the team's star, Ragland Dollie--who had once batted twice for the New York Giants in September, 1905--broke his femur when he fell from the center field clock tower at the close of a cocaine-inspired spree. "You're in there, kid!" cried Mumford, and with that, Sigmund got his chance.

He tore through the minor leagues like there was no tomorrow, hitting a combined .439 for five teams, each one in a higher league than the one before it. He pitched, too, compiling a log of 31-3 on the mound. It wasn't long before scouts and telegrams from as far away as Cincinnati and Boston, wanting Sigmund--now known as Slats, for having once hit a grand slam home run with a bed slat to win a game for the old Oakland Oats--to come play big league ball began to arrive. 

Bright lights, big city! Slats arrived in Boston to play for the Braves on a June afternoon in 1952, when he was just 17 years of age. The veterans on the club gave him a warm welcome, setting his suitcase on fire and pouring itching powder into his jock strap. Undeterred, Slats got into the game as a pinch hitter and belted a line drive double down the line. Spurred, perhaps, by the itching powder, Slats showed speed nobody could remember seeing before, at least not in Beantown.

The next year, 1953, saw Slats traded to the Phillies, where he hit 62 home runs, won 14 games as a pitcher, and spent the winter playing pro basketball "for fun." He met a young woman named Betsy Helgenshooker, and married her. "I'll always remember what she said to me at the church altar on our wedding day," recalled Slats some years later during an interview for the Philadelphia Phrenology News. "She looked so beautiful. She smiled shyly at me from behind her lace veil and whispered to me that she was 'pretty sure' the baby was mine."  

Perhaps tired from changing nappies, Slats slumped to only 47 homers in '55, and then 31 in '56 as the Phillies dealt him to the Pirates for Spook Jacobs. In Pittsburgh, Slats became a Buddhist and renounced all material possessions. Converting to vegetarianism as well, Slats hit a meager .213 in fewer than fifty at bats before being shipped out to the Elmira Elephants of the Barnum & Bailey League. Playing center field and shortstop, as well as filling in on the flying trapeze, Slats whiled away the time until he could return to the bigs.

But he never did. Georgia Alabama, the circus Fat Lady, entered Slats's hotel room one evening and shot him in the abdomen with a revolver. "I loved him," she explained to police, as Slats clung to life at Hobgoblin Hospital in Elmira. Though the brave young man tried a comeback, first with the Elephants and later with a succession of 'bush league" clubs, it never worked out; Slats became an alcoholic bum, sleeping on cardboard boxes over steam grates in downtown Philadelphia. 

Despite his sad end, the memory of Slats Stuffenberger's exploits as a lad in 1953 is cemented in Phillies lore forever. As his widow Betsy said--with Slats's son Jamaal at her side--"Slats always saw the best in people, and in life. He was a good man." A good man who once swatted 62 baseballs into the seats in the summer of 1953.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Book Review : "Pennant Race"

Pennant Race: The Classic Game-by-Game Account of a Championship Season, 1961Pennant Race: The Classic Game-by-Game Account of a Championship Season, 1961 by James P. Brosnan

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I liked this, but not as well as I liked Brosnan's earlier book "The Long Season." Like that book, this one has his acerbic wit, and an insider's view of baseball as it was in the early 1960's. However, it seems a little less fresh, and a little less varied--less inspired, somehow, than the first book.

That's not to say it wasn't a fun read. I was six years old in 1961 and my very earliest memories of the game I have loved all my life date back to that season, though the Reds--Brosnan's team--were not on the radar of this fledgling American League fan. By modern standards, this is not at all a "tell-all" book, but still there are some surprises. Brosnan has eliminated the casual racism of the earlier book, and even taken obvious effort to counter that, here. We get a much more human depiction of the Latin players in particular. I was genuinely shocked by the open discussion of greenies, the amphetamines popular among players of the era, which Brosnan refers to as "bombers." I knew about greenies, but never expected the workaday casualness in mentioning them. Almost two decades later another pitcher named Bill "Spaceman" Lee would catch all kinds of flak from league and club bigwigs for acknowledging his marijuana use. As far as I know, Brosnan's disclosures caused nary a ripple.

I missed the family stuff from the earlier book. In "Pennant Race" we hear very little about Brosnan's wife, and even less about his kids. Drinking, on the other hand, is constant and heavy. Like the pep pills, I already knew that major league baseball was a drinking culture at the time, but in both books the author seems afloat on a sea of martinis. One wonders how he performed so well, despite the night life. It's been done before, and often, I suppose, but when he describes being barely able to function in a game due to being hungover--following a drinking binge over not being selected to the All Star team--it's disturbing. At least it was to me.

In the latter third of the book particularly, when the pennant race becomes the sole focus, the day to day game descriptions blur together a bit, and grow rather tedious. Somehow, the excitement of a pennant race in an era when there still were pennant races, doesn't come through. Brosnan doesn't describe his team's city, Cincinnati, at all really, and the fans are described mostly as a clueless nuisance or, in the case of female fans or "broads" as he calls them, either hogs or hot. One has to consider the "Mad Men" environment, but still. Once the pennant is won, the book ends, with nothing at all written about the subsequent World Series against the Mantle & Maris led New York Yankees. Maybe the loss in five games would have been a down note to finish up with, but I had hoped for an insider's account of post-season play at a time when baseball was king.

Recommended if you like baseball, especially baseball back in the day, but not recommended as heartily as "The Long Season."

View all my reviews