The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "George" and "Ernie" and "Davis" and "Vladimir."
An overpriced clan of underachieving also-rans,
Last place dishwater, poured into tin pans
But stories are made of such sinewy stuff,
the connective tissue--the gristle--that only chews tough
and never goes down. Of infield dirt on dark blue jerseys,
Of bright red on white pants, from bleeding, skinned knees and wide smiles shining under 7th inning light.
And what is The Great Game?
A story.
The Great Game is a poem.
It whispers and surges and wanes and then screams.
A child of fickle fate, following parental footsteps,
selling beer and hot dogs to the Norns as they weave,
(team sweaters in the 8th inning roar)
A city, a province a country had guessed, in swing-and-miss dreams,
and blown-call cogitating, of .500 finishes and lukewarm bathwater--Of room temperature chow at the kids' table, and calling it "strides."
But Goliath was sleeping after twelve peals of the bell,
and the first round was over like a pinch-hit homer.
The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "Kirky," and "Davis" and "Gausy" and "Bo,"
"The Hound," and "Isaiah," "The Savage" and "Mad Max."
_"words that are heavy with nothing but trouble..."_
_Our_ Tinkers. _Our_ Evers. _Our Chance._
The giants played on their ground and from on high they fell,
by grand walls, by glass towers, by the frothing seas.
A City's Chosen Sons spent their summer slaying titans.
What is The Great Game?
It is a poem.
And our teams are protagonists.
What is the ballpark?
It is a cathedral.
We kneel at the Altar of Grass-Stained Knees,
and with infield dirt whispers of oiled mitt leather do we pray:
_"Let's play two." "Say hey."_
Play ball.