Poems For Leather: It's Time To Meet The Husband

You guys.  

I'm sort of without words this morning because you're about to meet my husband and I love him and I love you, and well, when two people you love meet each other you just really, really hope they get along.

Before we get to Tim's post, here's a photo.  If you're feeling like you know him from somewhere, it might be from a special 1991 issue of Homerun, where he was League M.V.P.:


We thought about re-creating this photo for the post, but felt the original was unbeatable.

I can't even.

Herewith, my guy.


Hello, I’m Tim, Emily’s husband. 

Emily has, over the years, often depicted me in quite a favorable light on these pages.  To EmilyBallard.com readers, I may be perceived as quite the dreamboat.  In the non-cyber world, however,  I’d guess I register as more of a well-loved, very seaworthy dinghy.  Because for as many stellar Timotho-lizing (definition: when I fucking rock it) moments Emily has shared, there are, I’m sure, an equal number of subpar performances she has not. 

I’m guessing she has not written about how bright she felt our future was, when, during the family strife of wedding planning, I once wailed like a three-year-old and wedged my head and torso in between our mattress and box spring.  Is Emily guilty of lying by omission?  Perhaps, but I like to think she’s a very patient spouse who’s married to a very weird dude. 

Let me first thank my wife - who’s a crazy-awesome, real-deal, super-sexy, generous-heart, knowledge-dropper - for allowing me to utilize this hallowed ground, generally reserved for revealing truth, humor, and soul-surviving tactics in this globe of certain mystery.

It’d be a far stretch to call this a “guest post,” as I’m here on a beggar’s errand, hat in hand. 

Without further ado…

I need a new baseball glove.  I’m attempting to come up with the money in a creative way - rather than by following historical precedence - which was to assume that any money in our bank account available for anything we “needed”; a budget based on a first-come, first-served basis does not produce a portfolio of excessive wealth.  Shocking, I know, but I have data to back up this assertion.

Currently, when I play ball with my four-year-old (he’s wicked good) I’m using my glove from when I was seven.  It’s a little bit small and I’d like to know if the grounders I muff are my fault or the glove’s. The Shoeless Joe infielder’s glove I’m wanting does not fall within the prescribed, let’s-finally-get-our-shit-together family budget.

 Here she is.

Here she is.

So, I’ve come to the internet to busk street poems, in exchange for a little cash, so I can buy my first adult baseball glove and a bucket of balls and teach Osiah to lay off the high heat and tame the wild hops.

Now, I write short poems, but they’re cheap – starting at just $3.00 up to whatever you’d like to pay.  I’m looking to raise $280.00 ($160.00, glove; $105.00, 3 dz. leather [non-synthetic] balls; $15 postage) with these hand-typed little bitches – your thank-you-for-your-support-gift – mailed right to your doorstep.  Your poem may even end up in the anthology I Don’t Even Like Poetry, by Timothy J. Ballard.

So do your part to support small time art with big time ambition. (I wasn’t even trying to rhyme.)

Give your piece of fine crafted literature a week or two to arrive, and then allow yourself a lifetime to ponder it.

I’m an analog kind of guy, and I don’t want a percentage of your donation going to corporate fat-cats, so I’d like to do this old-school.  If you want to invest in low-brow literature and the American pastime dream, please send a check or small amounts of cash to: Poems For Leather, 50 Glenbrook Dr., Greenfield, MA 01301. Make sure your return address is on your envelope so I know where to send your poem, and feel free to prompt me with a word or phrase to get some personalized creativity flowing.

Osi has his custom-made Whalen Stick, it’s time I have my Shoeless Joe.

Thanks a lot for letting me come into your space.

Play Ball!

Timothy J. Ballard

 Me and Osi, the day he got his Whalen Stick.  It was a good day.

Me and Osi, the day he got his Whalen Stick.  It was a good day.