SNAPSHOT

I know I’m old and therefore have fallen prey
(now, when 30 teams make up 6 divisions)
to viewing daily life under a magnifying glass
and what I see are amoebae reflecting Life
in its most basic form. I peer down and view
single-celled movements, each one wearing
an -eye catching uniform with a mystery number
on its back, limited to sixteen distinct geographic
teams competing for a single elusive prize. Those
are reflections of seasons decades past when the
teenage narrator who entertains you now could
glance at the back page of the New York Daily News
each evening and see listed alphabetically the
surnames of the players who had homered that day
(for most contests took place in the light of day, even
and especially the glory each year known as the
World Series though that version of the world which
fielded players was not as it is today). To me, this
visual image symbolizes romanticized well-seasoned
days when I could still recite stats found on the backs
of gum-perfumed baseball cards, days idealized by a
memory that submerges any negative details in favor
of beautiful simplicity. Just as I’ve traded a baseball bat
in my youth for a cane in my ninth decade, I’ve had
imposed upon my basic youthful baseball memories
the overload of hordes of lesser players and greater
statistics borne of the thirst for and curse of profits. I miss
the days before expansion, a time I was yet able to have
a loving grasp on my simpler baseball world, one I had
control upon by my devoted memory and the solar
system made up of sixteen teams orbiting my mind.