By Dr. Rajesh C. Oza
(In appreciation of the April 8, 2024 solar eclipse and with apologies to Bonnie Tyler)
Baseball was my reliable Chicago sun:
Warm summer days, filled with run after run.
Basketball was my Windy City moon:
Cool winter nights, swishing nets into June.
My heart had space for Doubleday and Naismith’s games;
My heroes in Cooperstown and Springfield’s Halls of Fame.
But my steadfast true love
Began with bat, ball, and glove.
Once upon a time, Whitman waxed serious,
“The game of ball is glorious.”
The poet couldn’t imagine “base” falling apart.
There’s nothing I would lament, for
Nothing could eclipse my game of ball.
Then a madness occurred;
Began with Magic and Bird.
Ernie Banks’ around-the-bases smile,
Was displaced by MJ’s high-flying guile.
Today’s kids are in far too much of a hurry,
Thrilling to threes by sweet Steph Curry.
They know not the wonder of a triple play,
As rare as the moon getting in the sun’s way.
Once upon a time, there was light in our life,
But now there’s only love in the dark.
Is there nothing that can save us from
A total eclipse of the game?
