by Ember Nickel
The lead off third–most of the way around
The basepaths, yet the distance still to go
Looms large. The runner checks himself, has found
He can’t turn back; and he is left with no
Choice but to run, break forward, and defy
The pitch itself. Time slows, a run appears
From desperation, being forced to try,
And jaws that dropped pick themselves up for cheers.
What remains now, when superstition’s gone?
After imposed fake narrative, what’s left?
The game itself finds more plays to spin on;
Out of the blue, a miraculous theft.
One needn’t be a loser to love story;
There will be space for small moments of glory.
Published in Chicago Cubs, Cleveland Indians, Fans, History, Sonnets | Link to this poem | No Comments