Introducing Mike from Alaska (and Haverhill)
I am introducing a new writer to our blog readers. He’s not new to writing, but we haven’t featured his work here before. I met Mike McCormick through Tom Sexton, one of our regular far-flung contributors who is a mutual friend. That would be Tom Sexton, the poet and retired professor of English who can be found in Alaska or Maine these days. Tom Sexton of the Lowell High School Hall of Fame and past Poet Laureate of Alaska with about a dozen books to his name. When Mike and I met for lunch at the Cracker Barrel in Tewksbury (a little bit of Southern Indiana on Route 133), we found a dozen contact points, from baseball and Jack Kerouac to John Sebastian, the Merrimack River, and poetry. He’s a Kinks freak going way back to a performance he went to in high school years. And did he tell me he saw the Lovin’ Spoonful at Central Catholic High School in Lawrence around the same time? I wasn’t taking notes, so I could be wrong on that one. I hope he sends us more writing about his days in the Merrimack Valley. And an occasional observation about Alaska, the way Tom Sexton does.
Mike grew up in Haverhill’s Acre neighborhood in the 1960s. His parents and grandparents worked in Haverhill factories through much of the 20th century. Since the mid-1970s, he has lived and worked in Alaska as an educator, concert promoter, and writer. Mike has worked with some of the biggest names in folk music that hail from his region or tour through the Northwest and into Alaska. He’s excited about fellow promoter Chris Porter’s plan for an ambitious music festival in Lowell. I’m sure our blog readers will be hearing more about this is coming months. Mike sent me a batch of poems and a couple of longer prose pieces. Memorial Day Weekend being a great baseball time, I thought this selection would be good. Marie Sweeney says there is always a Lowell connection, so note that Mike’s mention of George Herman Ruth reminds us that one of The Babe’s mentors when he was growing up in Baltimore, Maryland, was a Xaverian Brother who later taught at Keith Academy Catholic High School of young men, in the former City Jail on Thorndike Street that now has residences just next to Sal Lupoli’s Thorndike Exchange development (former Comfort Furniture and before that Hood factory for medicines). — PM
Three Poems by Mike McCormick
At Age Seven, I Learn the Legend
Sitting with my father
in the rickety wood grandstands
at a high school game,
I watched twilight’s shadow flood infield grass,
flow past the centerfielder,
and climb the concrete bleachers
over six hundred feet away.
Noticing my gaze, Dad said,
“See where the shadow stops
ten rows up the stadium steps?
Babe Ruth hit one
that landed out there
when he came through
on a barnstorming team.”
My eyes widened
as I imagined
the flight of a ball
sailing that distance.
Dad glared ahead,
rubbed his silver-stubbed chin
and pulled a cigarette
from the pack
in his shirt pocket.
“He was the lout who ruined the game.
Before him
players
could field
and bunt
and steal
a base.
But by the time he was through
all anyone could do
was stand around
and wait
for homers.”
Ballgame: Auke Bay, Alaska
There’s no field
amongst the hemlock and spruce
at the summer camp
so the kids play ball
in a pot-holed parking lot.
A pile of sweaters,
a couple of rocks,
one crushed beer can,
and a broken branch
stake the corners
of a diamond.
No bat but a battered tennis racquet,
no gloves needed
to handle the white plastic ball.
Outfielders dodge parked pickups,
chasing pop flies,
and there’s yelling,
and screaming and laughter
lots of laughter
riding every hit.
Looking back
to the soft, close-cropped lawns
where we practiced summer games,
I start to feel sorry for these kids
Then there’s yelling
and screaming and laughter
lots of laughter
another hit–
a black-haired girl,
perhaps ten,
races ‘round second
while an eagle
with a wing span
three times the length
of a big-league bat
glides smooth as the Yankee Clipper
just twenty feet overhead
And the kids
paying the bird as much mind
as DiMaggio paid pigeons
keep running,
keep yelling,
keep laughing.
Fenway Park
Sidewalk vendors shouting
“Peanuts”
in Kenmore Square
the smell of sausage, pretzels
souvenir racks spilling over
with hats, bats, and pennants
the crowd streaming towards the ballpark
from subways, buses, and cars
the art-deco Citgo sign still suspended overhead,
the infamous wall
(so close to home plate that even you could hit it
with a fly ball)
already the lights are on,
and soon the nighthawks will whirl
in the sky
the press of people funneling through the gates
finally in
pick up the program and pencil
for keeping score,
stop for a Fenway frank and beer
when you walk through the tunnel
into a world
of spotlight-charged green
the players are close enough
to hear your shouts
and the grass looks so lush
you want to roll in it.
Studying the left field wall
(where the score of the game is still
put up by hand),
you listen to “live” organ playing
just like in the days
of Speaker, Foxx, Williams, Yaz,
and even Ruth
Fathers sit with sons
who sit with daughters
Generations passing tradition and legend
down through the New England summer night
The park’s full, the team’s in the race
Fenway, the game, the history
How they live on
-Mike McCormick