In the World Series
everything plays at heightened pitch,
each swing, each batter, each run,
tensions rising as innings quickly move along.
Heroes are lauded, goats vilified,
and I don’t care about any of it.
Stadiums roar, announcers go bananas
as the ball sails over the right field wall.
I couldn’t care less.
Strange batters, strange pitchers fill lineup cards.
I have never been to their strange cities,
even if I could accumulate the airfare.
But I remember, now over the span of 30 years,
when my home team, my team (!)
played in the Fall Classic.
I could not afford a seat in the stadium then,
so I sat glued to the TV set,
and when, after hanging on every pitch,
the last batter struck out,
I screamed with joy into the set.
But that was long ago when I was young.
Yet, I remember, I do remember.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME