In December, the Fan Looks Forward to Spring
I wonder when the baseball season starts,
When men will fall upon the diamond's dust
Pursuing liners they will never catch.
In Spring, the contest's not between the teams.
It is the rookies trying to make the club;
The veterans striving for another year.
I love this slow, exquisite, formal game,
Enjoyed by Mexicans and Japanese,
Because it gives me pleasures of the soul,
Flamboyant passions of the matador,
An oriental silkscreen's certain peace.
Copyright © December, 1982 Mark O'Brien <marko@well.com>.
All Rights Reserved.
The End of Summer
Tonight, Fenway Park is cold, quiet, empty,
Inhabited by pigeons, grass, and wind.
The fans have turned to important tasks,
Raising children,
Removing tumors,
Teaching mathematics,
While forgetting the children's names,
Hesitating over how to reach the tumor,
Stumbling through the equations,
Tossed from reality by a spasm of thought,
They could've won it,
They had em,
Mistrustful, dismayed, embittered
By the wild pitch,
The medley of catastrophe,
The awful, throbbing repetition of
They could've won it,
They blew it.
Copyright © October, 1986 Mark O'Brien <marko@well.com>.
All Rights Reserved.
Magic Number
Reading a dead cold book
On dead cold logic
As winter rains pummel the disconsalate earth,
I glance at the page number,
162,
And the baseball field is populated, warm, busy,
Summer brags of her eternal length,
Rain becomes a sacrilege
As we confront the only important question:
Will Uribe drive in the tying run?
Copyright © December, 1987 Mark O'Brien <marko@well.com>.
All Rights Reserved.
February Blues
Scientists have verified it
with micrometers and atomic clocks --
Winter months last longer than Summer months --
confirming my experience
of listening to sports on AM
hungry for baseball gossip,
five player trades,
firings of beloved old managers,
and hearing only hockey, golf,
college basketball, the goddamned superbowl.
Copyright © February, 1993 Mark O'Brien <marko@well.com>.
All Rights Reserved.