My Mets are a M*A*S*H* unit
with more players on the IL
than in a small hospital ward,
fourteen at last count.
Strains and pulls, tears and bruises
have decimated my seasonal hopes.
(One player was hit square
in the face with a 95 mph fastball.)
I should have attended medical school
to keep track of the injured.
Umpires have been replaced
by Red Cross workers and
not-ready-for-prime-time players
have been called up from Triple A.
Fans in the stands, already irritated
by the restrictions of Covid,
have re-applied their masks to protest
less than stellar ball playing.
My father was a doctor,
so maybe I will take his old black bag
to the ballpark to be ready
to administer first aid if called upon.
Oh, it will be a long, long season.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME