Analyzing the hypnotic spell the World Series casts

Crisp fall nights.
Outfield lights.
The “boys of summer” tasting glory
having earned the right.

Horsehide stitch.
Fever pitch.
Those blazing fastballs
warm the evening.
It’s an autumn itch.

Hometown fans.
Peanut-littered stands.
With fingers crossed
for no-hit games,
they pray, too, for grand slams.

Pastime now.
“Holy cow!”
These baseball games
in late October
smooth a wrinkled brow.

Men like boys
with pent-up joys.
Their dreams of childhood
left unrealized
in a trunk of toys.

Yet each year,
like a mirror,
each televised
World Series game brings
what”s forgotten near.