Only fifty-nine days
before pitchers and catchers report.
A slow, rising tide of excitement
seizes my chest as I see again
the green fields of my youth.
I ignore the cold now gripping my bones
as tightly as a pitcher’s hand
wraps around a fastball.
I can hardly throw overhand anymore,
and am sure were I to swing a bat,
I would injure some internal organ.
But hope springs up like an errant ground ball
booted by an overzealous third baseman.
My beloved Mets, you bet, will fold by mid-season;
my hated Yankees will fight for the division lead,
and I will echo the cry of my honored Bums,
“Wait ’til next year.”
But for now, nothing can take away my joy
because there are only fifty-nine days
before pitchers and catchers report.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME