Category: The Game Itself

By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza

Chaupai (quatrain) poetry celebrating Mangla and Rajesh’s 40th anniversary on Earth Day, April 22, 2024.

My children’s mother loves all four of them dearly, holds them closely,
Just as Mother Earth loves her seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
As a fan, she loves all sports: Big Four, Olympics, and kabaddi;
As a teacher, she loves all students: quiet, chatty, short, and tall.

Holding my breath, I ask Mother Earth if there is a favorite.
She holds my head in her hands and shakes it like a Raggedy Ann.
“How can I choose one over the other; a child is not a chit.”
I reply, “My Queen, not our kids, but sports. Does one claim you its fan?”

She sighs. “It cannot be football, for it is violent and vile.
How can I root for players whose handsome faces I cannot see?
No, Fall’s game that blitzes and throws bombs and bullets raises my bile.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is too high a fee.”

She freezes. “It is not hockey, for it neglects too many shades.
How can such a lovely sport be so limited in its pigment?
While it’s scintillating when pucks spring off of slap shots from curved blades,
I look around the ice, and skins brown and black are but a figment.”

She smiles. “It could be basketball; just see the boys and girls in shorts.
To be sure, there is so much beauty in this game of balls and nets.
Still, there is something unforgiving about wood and concrete courts.
To defend against Tex Winter’s Triangle Offense, one plays chess.”

She glows. “I should not choose between my offspring, for they all bring joy.
But it is baseball. It is baseball. Yes, it is our dear baseball.
After Winter’s snow melts, on grassy fields bats and balls we deploy.
A game for all ages and seasons, from Spring to Summer to Fall.”