The reason we adore baseball,
the reason we hold on to
our boyhood dreams is,
the game provides us with something
often lacking in our humdrum lives –
“Our pitching will be stronger next year.”
“We will be a different team.”
“We are going to be in the mix in October.”
To change sports metaphors,
we surf on the crest of promises,
which sustains us through
the long winter night.
Our lives may lack a future.
We may tremble in our insecurities,
but if the carrot stick of
future diamond glory is offered,
“wait ‘til next year,”
we grab at it, hungrily.
We will no longer have to
wait ‘til next year,
because promises prove
next year is already here.