Through the years, even in World War Two,
baseball has been immutable,
a bell that has tolled for seasons,
a time on which to hang a hat.
This year has thrown us a looping curve,
and we teeter on the edge of striking out.
We may be frozen at a 3-2 count for now.
I can handle life at a different speed,
Like a wily pitcher with a good change ball.
I can handle new baseball rules, like,
seven inning double-headers,
men on second in extra innings
and even the prospect of robo-umps.
I can handle all that. I can handle
the pandemic that increases,
and the economy that doesn’t.
But losing? That is a pitch of a
different speed and arm angle.
My team is out of the playoffs.
I can’t handle that.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME