Off-Seasonal
Affective Disorder
The cold wind of a swinging strike three,
in the bottom of the ninth of that playoff game they
should have won.
But didn’t.
The days grow shorter now. Or is it longer?
The three-hour escape…
No longer there.
Instead, the “Hot Stove”…
Empty talk of Free Agents and trades that never happen.
Poor kindling at best.
I suppose it’s better now. With blogs and such.
Then when I waited for that first true sign of spring.
Street and Smith.
Three words
Telling me the world begins anew.
Then the most important three words of all…
Pitchers and Catchers.
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4 comments:
Make no mistake
Doug is Awake
Out of the Sky
Falls a Lake
To Dampen
Our Dream
Drown out
Our Screams
Gots to Go
Its time for JOE
For some reason, this poem reminded me of Groucho's "Strange Interlude" in Animal Crackers:
Capt. Spaulding : Why you, couple of baboons. What make you think I’d marry either one of you. Strange how the wind blows tonight.
Great stuff, Doug—grim as it is!
And yeah, the full arrogance of the Yankees can very well be captured by their loss in our Peerless Leader's tabloid race. The team's measurable decline in fan interest...doesn't bother their owner and his minions in the least.
Hal is the New Coke of the Yankees' brand. "We're so sure you'll buy the brand that we don't even care what's in the product anymore." Assuming that baseball survives its coming, self-inflicted apocalypse—no sure thing—he is going to discover that is not the case.
But again, what the hell does he care?
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