Emerging from the stands,
I step out of the shadows,
into the sunlight of the open-air cathedral.
I am here to offer devotion to the angels,
not of the left coast, but of those players
who stand at the altar of home plate,
whose mighty blasts seem to touch
the dome of heaven.
I am but a poor acolyte
begging to divine the secrets
of the baseball universe,
the ethereal spark that completes
a 6-4-3 double play,
the lyrical hymn of a curveball
as it circles its way towards home,
the rush of the celestial wind as
the batter fans on three straight pitches.
From my pew, I pray for a ninth-inning hit,
or walk-off home run which will
deliver me into the arms of victory.
But no matter the outcome,
I shall return next week to my church
to sing the praises of the game I worship.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME