The chatter reminds me of the chirping that I can’t
escape (from birds outside my window, eagerly
saluting the rising sun), but this annoying sound
that digs and grinds, settling inside my brain,
does not act as harbinger to a lovely day; it rather
plays the trumpet signifying that the battle has
begun. “Replace the umps!” the voices chant in
discord. “They blow too many calls and in their
stead, crank up the robots with their laser eyes
and we will move that much closer to perfection.”
It’s just another step on the path to self-
destruction, in tune with managers who have
defaulted their wise judgment to the numbers and
the charts. What’s next? I fear that it will come
to “their” attention that the athletes play too
imperfectly, with their errors and their strikeouts
and their descending batting averages. “How can
we permit the players to interfere with what can
be a perfect game? Automatons will bring us just
the sport that we deserve . . . and since those
techno-players can be faultless and the games
might never end, the programmers must
orchestrate each contest to entertain the fans
who paid good cryptocurrency to see a Show!”
And this is how the game, with all its subtleties
and energy will fade away and be replaced with
just another network show waiting for
its cancellation notice.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME