Our team resides in first place . . .
Every new season brings sunshine and roses blooming on the vine
And bluebirds chirping a song of joy and hope.
There are no last-place teams when the season starts;
Each player has a flawless batting average and knows the stats
Are an empty canvas awaiting Rembrandt’s masterpiece.
Each day the season starts is a door quietly and slowly opening
With an invitation to attend a joyous gathering — fans in the stands filled
With excitement and the anticipation of a meal well served —
And with a view of uniforms still spotless, yet waiting to lose
Their shine by that first slide or diving catch, the brown mark
Of honor on display as a sign of hustle and of caring.
Every start of season does present us with this picture-perfect
View from any angle of the field and seats . . . and then we see
The first pitch finally, hitter making contact, fielders doing their
Oft-rehearsed defensive dance — the season is now under way
And we recoil and we recall
Why we are present and in love
In the first place.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME