It’s only a game, you tell yourself,
no loss of eye or limb,
or, God forbid, a family member.
Still, how do you handle loss
by a team you’ve staked
your season’s long hopes on?
There used to be the old bromide:
“Wait ’til next year,”
but I am running out of years.
This die-hard fan does not wish
to die without a championship.
Million dollar ballplayers have
failed me, and I take it personally.
The stands are now empty;
the lights have been turned off,
and Mighty Casey has struck out.
The winter wind laughs in my face,
telling me, so much for your dreams.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME