The present-day draw of our national pastime

World Series fever.
It’s a sickness for which I pray
they will never find a cure.
Its allure is both senseless and sensual.
Hear the sounds of cheering crowds,
home plate umps and sliding into third.
Smell the fresh mown grass
and the oiled leather gloves
(not to mention the unmistakable fragrance
of those stadium vendors’ dawgs).
Feel the chill of a cool October night
and the warmth of the bright lights overhead.
Taste the salted nuts and Crackerjacks,
while you watch a game
you first watched with your grampa.
Is it any wonder our national pastime
is enjoyed best in the present tense?
Batter up!
Against the backdrop of applause,
a uniformed ambassador
emerges from a dug-out embassy.
He advances to a diamond-shaped
table of negotiation.
His eyes meet his adversary’s.
No words are spoken,
but the interchange has begun.
Snap!
An airborne handful of horsehide
traveling nearly a hundred miles an hour
strikes an awaiting hand gloved by nothing but cowhide.
Stee-rike!
A vocal evaluation
of the placement of said pitch
(announced with dramatic confidence)
meets with the approval of a crouched catcher
but not of a betwixt batter
who shakes his head in disbelief.
Determined to swing next time,
he fails to make contact with the speeding blur of white.
As the third pitch sails outside,
the batter blinks his eyes and cocks his head
but can’t believe his ears.
Yeer out!
Without a doubt the man in black
(with the authority of a man of God)
casts a pall of mourning
on the somber congregation.
His unexpected benediction
leaves them suddenly silent with angry grief.
In an attempt to express their sorrow,
the stunned mourners cry out something about
the umpire’s need for medical treatment
related to his obvious visual impairment.
But all is not lost.
The cost of victory is about to be paid.
Crack!
A wooden cylinder drills a white stitched ball
deep into right center field.
The cheering fans beyond the ivy-covered wall
watch the wind-swept fly die
beyond the reach of a leaping outfielder
and land in the outstretched hand of a wide-eyed child
(convinced dreams do come true).
Holy cow!
And holy horses too.
You can’t help but be grateful for
those sacred barnyard animals
whose lives were sacrificed
in order for their skins to equip a game
that refuses to die
and whose popularity
continues to defy explanation.
Yes!
There’s no way to say just why it’s so.
It just is. That’s all.
Though terror stalks our peace of mind
and nations flirt with war,
when the final score in the fall classic
finds your team on top
all is right with the world.
Seriously…
at least for a week in autumn.

Did ESPN Rush to Judgment?

Have you seen with your eyes
or heard with your ears
what happened to “the mouth” recently?
Whether you’re inclined
to give Rush
two thumbs up
or two thumbs down
one has to hand it to him.
Fed up with a perceived inability
to express a legitimate opinion,
Mr. Limbaugh rushed to step down.
And maybe you
would have done the same
if it appeared you had no choice.
I can’t help but wonder
if that was the case.
Since it wasn’t possible to erase
comments construed as racist,
isn’t it likely that ESPN VIPs
called the EGO an SOB and
(thinking of their NFL sponsors)
told him where he could go?
Even so, the moral of this mess
is this:
Given the inflationary value of being politically correct,
free speech can be pretty costly these days.

Are the Cubs World Series Hopes Serious?

There’s Dusty and Sammy
and Kerry and Matt,
there’s Moises and Mark and there’s more.
Those “Loveable Losers”
from Wrigley Field
are starting to hit and to score.
But can they advance through the playoffs this year?
Can their lengthening season
yet grow?
The Cubbies last visit to World Series land
was fifty-eight long years ago.
But when they last won in the final hurrah
was way back in 1908.
No wonder the Cubs have become what they are;
the team that we all love to hate.
If practice makes perfect
this may be the year
when Williams and Santo and Banks
will join in the glory of what they all missed
while giving the Baker
their thanks.

How we are losing the war we won

The nightly news is suffocating
(like a noose around your neck).
In Iraq the body count is getting out of hand.
By ones and by twos
our soldiers keep dying
and I keep trying to understand
why Hussein eludes us
and his countrymen hate us
and whose saying what and to whom.
It’s a damn shame.
It’s doom and gloom
and the room for debate
about this war
is beginning to approximate
the size of one
of Saddam’s ransacked palaces.
Even though we’ve supposedly won,
lives are still lost
as the fighting goes on.
It’s a war that is killing our President’s hopes
of living in the White House another four years.
It’s a black plaque
for which there appears
to be no cure.
It’s an epidemic in which
winners and losers
(whoever they are)
ironically both bleed red.
The evening news on CNN
is more like the evening blues.

A Tribute to Johnny Cash

I’m feeling kinda poor today.
The Cash is finally gone.
That pocked-face man who dressed in black
has sung his final song.
He sang about a love gone bad,
about a life ill-spent.
His songs conveyed the pain he felt
as down sin’s road he went.
But when the man in black met Christ,
his whole demeanor changed.
Although he still could sing the blues,
his heart was not estranged.
He walked the line (and sometimes tripped).
Like us he stumbled on.
But with his sweetheart by his side,
a weak man became strong.
In May his June found wings and flew
to Canaan’s happy land.
And Johnny died a bit back then.
She was his one-man band.
The two at last are one again.
The circle is complete.
Their hands are raised in grateful praise
because of Jesus’ feat.