By Stephen Jones
Yankee Stadium – a heat wave is shimmering.
It’s July and baseball. The air is oppressive –
thick, almost strangled – on the field and off.
But the fans are loyal. They are as thick as
cotton candy in the sun-bleached stands.
It’s Sunday, Game 3 against the O’s.
Will the surging Yankees sweep?
(Of late, before the break, they’re playing
winning baseball with every-inning effort.)
The game seesawed, the play well-matched.
The 9th inning arrived like clockwork
and expectations rippled through the seats.
The stadium air felt lighter, less stagnant,
as if by an off-shore breeze freshened.
Mariano Rivera had taken the mound.
But like a great wave fan expectation crested
far too soon. It broke, crumbled. “The Sandman”
had blown a second save this year. He watched,
mouth open, as a homer sailed over center field.
The air which had been held suspended fell.
It collapsed in the stadium in disbelief.
Published in Ballparks, Baltimore Orioles, Fans, Free Verse, New York Yankees, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 1 Comment