The Poet: Jerry Hamelin

TOTS Senior Baseball Network

60-and-over baseball

Jerry Hamelin is a 73-years-old baseball player and has been an active member of the Tucson Old Timers (TOTS) since 2002. Hamelin played in the Yankee organization in the late 1950s and early 1960s, but he was forced to give up his dream of playing pro ball due to his battle with spinal meningitis --an inflammation of the membranes surrounding the brain and spinal cord. Luckily, Jerry recovered, worked for and retired from IBM before settling in Arizona. Jerry found his way to the TOTS and has been active with the organization, on and off the field, for 12 years.

And he is a poet...

Jerry's poem "Owed to the Game" follows and gives plenty of insight on just how the TOTS play the game of baseball.


The "Ins" are in and the "Outs are out."
Play ball, you pilgrims! The umpire shouts.

It's hot out here.
You're delaying the game.
He snarls with a sneer,
looking for someone to blame.

And three outs after
We finally begin,
The Ins are Out,
and the Outs are in.

Let's move this along.
Let's have a batter.
Get a pig tail in back.
It's the usual chatter.

What inning is this?
Everyone shouts.
Let's have a batter.
Who made the last out?

How many innings?
We never play nine
Can we play seven?
No, six will be fine.

Someone yells, "who's on deck?"
And, "who's in the hole?"
Keep your head in the game.
What an impossible goal!

Three innings pass.
The Outs lead by four.
But it's not out of reach
If the Ins get four more.

It's the top of the fourth.
The bases are clear
It's time to produce.
Get a batter up here.

There's a hit, then a walk.
The Ins mount a threat.
The game's getting closer.
But the Outs say, "no sweat."

Two Ins are on base.
It's less than two out!
They yell, "infield fly."
You can count on that shout.

Then Casey steps in.
The game's on the line.
The pitcher stares down at
the catcher's last sign.

What sign?
Just get the ball to the plate,
and hope against hope
that Casey swings late.

The runners lead off.
Casey's bat is in his hands.
No-one calls time
as the catcher throws sand.

The wind from the right
blows the sand all about.
A mistake to be sure, about
that there's no doubt.

It blows in his eyes,
a result unexpected.
Too late now,
It can't be corrected.

It was meant as a joke,
not a distraction. But the
joke went awry and stopped
all the action.

Casey backs out, shaking
his head, sand in his eyes,
rubbing them red.

His vision obscured.
It's time-out by default.
The TOTS stand around, the
game grinds to a halt.

But Casey regroups and
steps in the box. He shakes
off the pain with no mental blocks.

The game must continue,
It's time to play ball.
He hits down the line, and
it's the catcher's call.

Fair ball, or foul?
What does it matter?
This catcher is sorry!
He meant no harm to the batter.

This tale is finished.
It's about time, you all say.
So here's the last word before
we resume play:

No more sand in the air, no need to
twitter. I'll find other ways to
harass every hitter.