by Charles Ghigna
In memory of Jack Marsh, 
second baseman, Yale University, 1943 
Before the bayonet replaced the bat, 
Jack Marsh played second base for Yale; 
his spikes anchored into the August clay, 
his eyes set deep against the setting sun. 
The scouts all knew his numbers well, 
had studied his sure hands that flew 
like hungry gulls above the grass; 
but Uncle Sam had scouted too, 
had chosen first the team to play 
the season's final game of '44, 
had issued him another uniform 
to wear into the face of winter moon 
that shone upon a snowy plain 
where players played a deadly game, 
where strikes were thrown with each grenade 
and high pitched echoes linger still, 
beyond the burned out foreign fields 
and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals, 
young Jack Marsh is rounding third, 
and sliding, sliding safely home.
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