Submissions open for fourth edition of Turnstyle: The SABR Journal of Baseball Arts
By Joanne Hulbert
A great sigh of relief and a celebratory “Huzzah!” rang through the land when Volume 3 of Turnstyle: The SABR Journal of the Baseball Arts circled the bases, figuratively speaking. SABR’s Baseball and the Arts Committee now turn their sights to Journal Number Four!
All SABR members are encouraged to send along your submission, or your questions, to editors Joanne Hulbert or Jay Hurd before June 30, 2023. We are looking for poetry, memoir, artwork, humor, short fiction, historical fiction, science fiction, and parody.
Please keep your Turnstyle submission to 1,500 words or less in order to include as many offerings as possible. Be creative, and literary, all you baseball Bards, Artistes and Scribblers!
The previous three editions will give you an understanding of what Turnstyle: The SABR Journal of the Baseball Arts is all about, but if unclear or in doubt, and you require more inspiration, here’s something to get your creative emotions fired up from The Sporting News, January 4, 1908, by William F. Kirk:
THE POET BURSTS INTO SONG
The Base Ball Poet sat in his cheerless apartment alone with his thoughts – lonely, oh, so lonely! The library in which he lounged was plainly, yet tastefully, furnished. A solid, square mission table stood stolidly in the centre of a creaky floor, its legs resting on a well-known rug – a rug that showed the wear and tear of age and still retained traces of its former beauty. On the walls were sundry pictures and prints – “Washington Crossing the Delaware,” “Washington Almost Winning a Pennant,” “Napoleon’s Retreat from Moscow,” and “Griffith’s Retreat from Montana,” all peering down at the Base Ball Poet, who placed them where they were.
Without, a terrific storm was raging. The flying flakes of snow that blinded the eyes of stray pedestrians, the weird howling of the wind from over the Palisades, the gentle whir of the gas meter, and the infinitesimal snores of the sheltered cockroaches in the kitchen – these stirred the Base Ball Poet’s Muse to action, and in the words and figures following, he wrote:
Dead Autumn’s leaves are whirling to the ground,
Young Winter’s flakes are gaily following suit,
Across the lea the northern zephyrs bound,
And vainly do I strive to tune my lute,
Oh, how it blows! The night grows bitter cold,
And tears unbidden trickle through my lids,
Bring back, bring back, Oh Muse, the days of old,
When New York’s Giants were the Candy Kids!
Three years ago – it seems but yesterday –
The Giants were the greatest of the great;
The crowds that hustled out to see them play
Were sorely pressed to wiggle through the gate.
In those glad hours I scaled Parnassus’ heights,
Singing of Mathewson’s terrific speed;
In those glad hours I gave McGraw his rights,
But now, alas! my Muse has gone to seed.
To sing, or not to sing – that is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler for a bard to praise,
Or, in the throes of chronic indigestion,
To knock McGraw’s (and Griffith’s) pennant plays.
It’s pretty hard to knock our New York leaders,
And harder still to do the boosting thing.
Reflect upon my plight, my gentle readers –
Believe me, I am saddest when I sing.
Originally published: March 1, 2023. Last Updated: March 1, 2023.