For Mike’s 70th
Some saps who don’t know Mike pronounce it Peech,
just like the Anglo-Saxon hemisteech,
but, truthfully, that word is hemistich,
which rhymes, of course, with Wilbur’s knickname, Dick.
But now I’ve wandered too far from the man,
who, with Alyssa, Brent, and fair Diane,
carries the honored name that we all like,
that spondee of eight decades, The Mike Peich.
David Yezzi
Seventieth Birthday Encomium to Michael Peich
To one who stood where Barber stood,
And said, "Hey, why not get some rhyme here?"
Who sips rich pinot, calls it good,
And scoffs at mention of Bud Lime beer;
To one with Phillies seats reserved,
And dapper with his white mustache;
One, like a pickle, well preserved,
Balanced and tall, as the White Ash,
I send this period of praise,
To set his character on the page,
And wish that still more happy days
May crown his seventy years of age.
James Matthew Wilson
Batty at the Vet
Since I’m an old guy, let’s not talk of age
But Michael Peich and baseball. Set the stage:
Late May, 2001. The park: The Vet,
As cruel a place as baseball parks can get.
Mike had sweet tickets, shared (nice guy) with me;
I balked my boss, met Mike, and we commenced
With dog and brew our donnybrook against
The hated Expos.
All that chilly night
Bad luck brought out Mike’s grief, good luck his spite.
Exultant when we scored, when they, bereft,
Peich gave himself until no self was left,
Inhabiting the game’s release, the joy
Of being what most men remain: a boy
Indelible. For Michael Peich is one
Of those who see exalted worth in fun,
Embrace the old game, knowing it’s not true,
Cheer, not because they don’t – because they do.
You share the taste with those who share with you
In the same spirit – as Mike Peich would do.
To watch Mike Baseball, you would not have guessed
That this professor ever had professed
Of poetry, or wine, or type set well.
He gave the Phillies heart, the umpires hell:
“Go get new glasses, zebra!” was his call.
“Let’s go, now! We can do this!” “Kill the ball!”
The Phillies, who’d done all that could be done
To the lose the game, trailed by a single run.
And now the diapered bottom of the ninth
Which is, if you ask me, the very plinth
For any statue titled Failure. Plus
The closing pitcher boded bad for us:
If I had patience, I’d write a sestina
About the wily, voweled Ugueth Urbina,
Reliever mean. Mike: “Gut him, Phils!” The louts
Of Philly slogged about, and made two outs. …
About the wily, voweled Ugueth Urbina,
Reliever mean. Mike: “Gut him, Phils!” The louts
Of Philly slogged about, and made two outs. …
Scott Rolen reached … Abreu, too … and fate
Selected next a not so bad ungreat
Named Travis Lee. He practice-swung, tapped spikes,
And right away, allowed two perfect strikes
To split the plate. The cold crowd groaned. For who
Would think he’d do what Casey could not do?
Mike Peich. “It only takes one hit,” he said.
“We got this. One good single. We’re not dead
Yet” – and a good thing, too, for Travis Lee
Remembered some long-hid ability
And swung in one-time grace. Strike three reversed,
Exploded out, as if this were rehearsed,
And as Mike gazed in slack-jawed, blissed delight,
Jackhammered a parabola through the night.
As dented ball completed its career
Fought over in the bleachers, and a cheer
Robbed all of hearing, Michael, a bear on bike,
Did something I shall only call The Peich –
Watusi? Stroke? Electrocution? Bump? –
His shoulders unacquainted with his rump,
His dance partaking of the Philly dance
Of disbelief, of “Thank you, Ma’am” to chance,
And now he joined the mad scene in the aisles,
Mike’s smile the wide quintessence of all smiles.
I’ve emptied my poetic portmanteau.
Where Mike’s concerned, here’s all you need to know:
Exulting with that crowd of loyal lives
He jumped not high in air, and gave high fives
In happiness so generous and good
He would have given sixes if he could.
John Timpane
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