While impatiently waiting
for spring training to begin,
I reluctantly turn on the TV
and watch the NFL playoffs unfold.
Immediately, I am hooked by
large bodies pummeling each other,
with bone-crushing tackles,
and beautiful spirals floating
into the arms of fleet receivers.
I am now an American Deplorable,
missing only a ragged tee shirt and
a bottle of beer. I sit in my Lazy-Boy
glued to the screen, commercials
included, and only move for trips to
the bathroom and the refrigerator.
If I had a car I would tailgate.
If I had money I would place a bet,
but in the absence of bat and ball
I will sit here, transfixed
up to and through the Super Bowl,
keeping a sharp eye peeled,
of course, for the announcement of
pitchers and catchers to report.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME