At first there is the tantalizing arietta,
a whisper of a melody – could it be?
At the bottom of the fifth – bel canto
your man has not allowed a hit – song continues.
Ssh, don’t talk about it, a jinx.
In the sixth, voices grow louder.
Please another inning with no hits.
By the eighth, the crescendo grows, fortissimo,
and now in the ninth, – the last act –
the chorus in the stands begins to rumble,
while everyone else sits tranquillamente,
holding their collective breaths.
Tension grows, one out, then two,
one strike, and then, oh, my God! –
a single up the middle.
The whole operatic house
deflates like a balloon.
Recovering, the fans stand up,
and give the disheartened pitcher
a standing ovation for his bravura performance.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME