Baseball: A Love Poem

Dear baseball, when did I first meet you?

I have a vague recollection of 1982

The clash between St. Louis and Milwaukee

The Brewers lost—my poor birth city!

 

But it was 1986 that really got me hooked

When the Mets stole game six like a bunch of Queens crooks

Down 5-3 and one strike away

How could I forget this once fateful play?

 

I listened to games on a transistor radio

Near the rotary phone, with staticky audio

I even jumped aboard a train called rotisserie

Named for the chicken and the father of fantasy

 

And when the Yankees won in 1996

It was like having a firstborn, minus one tick

Staring at the TV brought unbridled joy

I could ignore the reflection and still be a boy

 

I know deep down you don’t really matter

With your pitchers and catchers and fielders and batters

But then again, does anything really?

It’s all made up, even religion and money

 

Is watching men kill a more worthy pursuit?

Must my focus on taxes remain absolute?

Perhaps I should worship a November election

Turn the childish diatribes into simple deflections

 

But I want to be a standard American

Why watch Fox News when there’s ESPN?

Do I need to know there exist other countries

Beyond Japan and the mighty Taiwanese?

 

Nah, this one I’ve thought fully through

I have no qualms in settling on you

The other stuff can keep feigning importance

Brainwashing billions into mindless conformance

 

You bring us together, it doesn’t matter who

Amazing what cork and maple wood can do

The smell of the grass, the majesty within

Of little concern is where the players have been

 

And I get a hot dog with a generous beer

To just one or two I need not adhere

A close game—sure, that would be nice

But that’s a cherry on top, a garnish or spice

 

Yes, sometimes you can be rather boring

In between pitches and when anemic’s the scoring

This pitch clock, though, has been like your Brahma

Saving the game and its spellbinding drama

 

So it’s fine to remember Joe Carter’s home run

More than my wife’s 40th—was that even fun?

A World Series walk off doesn’t happen every day

And this scene in Canada—I mean what can I say?

 

The Kirk Gibson homer still gives me chills

The pulse of the moment, the limp, and the thrill

Vin Scully, Jack Buck, legends at the mic

Is it perception, or are there no more of the like?

 

You’ve lost your place in the larger conversation

But you haven’t changed—it’s cultural fragmentation

Just because others have toned down the chatter

Doesn’t make elsewhere at all any fatter

 

Come what may, baseball, I’m still around

I’ll always be there when the winner is crowned

In your bloated mythology I’m an ardent believer

As believing other myths, now that ain’t leisure