In my mind my Mets take the field.
The players run out to their positions
amid the roar of the crowd.
Degrom is pitching now,
as he sets on the mound
and whistles a fast ball past
the first batter for a called strike.
Hawkers sell ice cream and pretzels;
vendors open up their cans of beer.
All is as it should be.
My spring has been sabotaged,
the props of my fandom knocked out,
and all I can do is imagine
the sights, sounds, and smells
of a major league baseball game.
It’s a night game, Degrom still pitching,
but suddenly the lights fail one by one.
The crowd exits slowly,
with Degrom the last to leave.
He shuts off the last light
of the season, all dark now,
and wonders, if and when,
he will ever pitch again.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME