by Charles Bernstein
A Swing And A Miss, Strike 1
In the lore of the game, nothing stays the same for long, as I sit in my box seat with my scorecard and observe the trend toward extinction of the verb used only sparingly
The Stretch, The Pitch
Just ask Pete Rose.
He certainly knows what it’s like to hear it.
Or ask the eight men in black who never got back their souls misplaced with anger nearly 87 years ago.
High and Inside, Ball 1
And yet, there are other excuses that are washed away. Hands slapped and fines paid and suspensions which mean virtually nothing because it is so common in these times.
Checked Swing, Strike 2
Trends come and go and I’ve seen a lot just sitting here observing, and it’s sad for a league that believes in legitimacy, is also the same league that would also suddenly shift as in swerving to avoid outright hitting what is so obviously true.
Low and Away, Ball 2
The feel-good swat-swingers; too many to count.
Foul Ball, The Count Still Two And Two
Too many to pinpoint and ask them how they could be so cruel to the game. Better to tell them that they will never amount to the greatness they once were.
Ball 3, That’s Chin Music! Full Count
Pop a pill, inject the juice, and exhale their honesty in a single fret, grimly smiling for the naïve fan base not caught up in all the hoopla of the mania moment.
Strike 3, He Struck Him Out!
Seating in my seat, I tear up my scorecard into little tiny pieces and cry softly to myself, knowing that the game stats will never again be so balanced.
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