Another blown save, the recurring image of a season.
Most fans file out to the nearest exits,
Their stomachs full of beer and hot dogs.
Some wear colorful hats that will surely
Boast a different team’s emblem next year.
Old-timers remain isolated in seats, looking pained
And angry at themselves for continuing to care.
This doesn’t settle as well for me either, I guess.
Do I have the same look as the old-timers?
Back in May there was so much hope.
Even if soon it got too hot to go to the ballpark,
So we sat on recliners in air-conditioning,
Sipping Coke and resting our eyes between innings.
Then the roster depleted with injuries,
And the division slowly slipped away.
Talk radio reminded us, even when we didn’t want to hear it,
“We need a leadoff hitter! Why don’t we make a trade?”
“So many managerial mistakes – fire him, please!”
And: “We’ve got to return to small ball and fundamentals.”
I don’t know which is worse, the passion of the broadcasters
Or the apathy of fans who couldn’t name a starting pitcher.
But those fans will probably be in the good seats
Next year for spring training, nodding thoughtlessly
At whatever the analysts say.
Tonight, I will not turn on Sportscenter.
I will not check the box score in the newspaper.
I will not get excited about who my team signs in the offseason
And most of all, I will not say those cursed words
(Already being uttered by everyone around me):
“Maybe next year … “
THE POETRY OF THE GAME