Baseballbard.com belongs in the Hall of Fame,
The one in Cooperstown, New York,
Near the crystal-clear Otsego Lake.
That holy shrine that welcomes heroes and the best
Should make room for the rest of those in love with the game.
There’d be no meaningful Major Leagues
Without the fans to cheer the great ones on.
A ballgame played before abandoned, vacant seats
Is an empty exercise, a game between neighborhood kids,
That all too soon would hit the players with depression
From the realization that they play unrecognized And unvalued.
Does a bat dropped in a fan-less forest field make a sound?
Does a Broadway show performed for a missing audience
Elicit pleasure from performers taking bows to emptiness?
And so those lonely plaques suspended from plain tan walls
Seem to symbolize the isolation of missing reciprocation
That must be finally addressed —
And who best to enter the Hall
And find co-habitation with the star performers
Of America’s home-grown game
Than fans in love enough with baseball to such a degree
That they have written love songs, elegies and anthems
To the game . . . which find a nourishing home at baseballbard.com
But which equally belong in Cooperstown’s famed museum
Near the heroes who provided vital breath and accomplishment.
To those hitters and those pitchers and the others
Without whom there would be no baseball poetry.
Like the song of the Siren, these poems cannot
Be ignored by ordinary mortals or by the gods of Cooperstown
Who gave them Life, Purpose, and Direction.
Open widely and wisely the arched doorway to the Hall and let
The rest of the family come in to stay and grow.
——————- by Herbert Munshine