by Stephen Jones
After Hurricane Sandy, and some days –
a rout of water washed memory away –
I try and recall the World Series.
Television numbers, ratings a barometer
of national enthusiasm, were lower,
much lower. So how to dissect this?
Critics argue: the Series starts too late.
Schedule it to start on an earlier date.
But this alone doesn’t make the Series
more memorable. Maybe it was what
lack of punch Detroit brought to the plate?
Or San Fran’s sudden metamorphosis?
Maybe a team peaked too soon while the other
crested even above its own high water
mark? In a season, any team will do this.
If I was an ardent hometown fan, Yes
I’d crow from the bleachers unabashed.
My team won – that’s all that matters.
But past the TV hype, the predictions
and overwhelming prognostications,
I try and recall the World Series.
Something happened. Or maybe not.
It was like the last pitch of the last out:
Cabrera not blinking, not even swinging –
Detroit in the eye of a storm not of its doing.