There is no crying in a baseball game
(Except for Wilmer Flores, who loved the Mets
And thought they had broken his heart by trading
Him – – – which they would, but not on July 28, 2015),
But there is sadness . . oh, not only the surface
Transient grief of the Mets trading Seaver away
Or the home run Thomson hit off Branca or
The lead the Phillies blew to lose the pennant
In the disappearing days of 1964. There is the
Heartache of a life lost much too soon, a death of a
Human being / athlete who loved his family so much
That he learned to fly so he could spend more time
With his loved ones between games . . . and the
Bitter, hurtful irony of his death when Thurman Munson’s
Cessna Citation crashed just short of an Akron runway
Reminded us that they are human, these heroes,
They’re just men, and for them, much as they may
Love the game, it is no more than a vehicle to carry
Them from place to place to home. There is much
Joy in baseball but as with all things involving humans,
There is no guarantee that joy will last. The game
And those who play, like all human endeavors, are
Moments in their history; they will not last.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME