7 Hours
Oct 29 2025
There’s no clock in baseball.
Aficionados
super-fans
and the game’s literary chroniclers
love to mention this
with a supercilious air.
Wax on
that while other sports
are hemmed in by the stop-watch
and the field of play
baseball isn’t over ‘til it’s over,
while the outfield extends as far
as a slugger can drive the ball.
Einstein must have been a football fan.
Because baseball exists
outside the space/time continuum
on a planet of its own,
indifferent
to gravity
dark matter
or even black holes;
a field of dreams
where the grass is greener
than nature allows.
Where you only notice the clock
when the temperature drops
or the lights come on.
Where you find yourself wondering
where the home-run ball
that sailed over the fence
and vanished into darkness
eventually rolled to a stop.
Or is it still going strong?
Bouncing down a downhill street,
or on the truck where it landed
and on its way to the coast
on a load of auto-parts
or ladies’ discount frocks.
It took 18 innings
to decide the game.
Almost 7 hours went by,
and we remained rapt
despite how late it was.
7 hours
that don’t count.
7 hours
that in the fullness of time
the gods will surely give back.
The stands are now empty
the field dark
and the beer all drunk,
but could the home-run ball
that ended the odyssey
still be rolling along?
In the baseball universe
where time is inconsequential
and space dimensionless,
could friction
be nonexistent as well?
The lost souvenir,
dodging cars
and pin-balling curb-to-curb
on its way to who-knows-where.
Just a quick note to document the inspiration for this self-indulgent poem. Or as a reminder for when my faculties weaken and memory fades.
Game 3 of the 2025 World Series between the upstarts, my beloved Toronto Blue Jays, and the defending champion LA Dodgers. A Freddie Freeman dinger walked it off for the home team in a heart-crushing game that could easily have gone either way, and ended with us falling behind 2 games to 1 in the best of 7 series.
No comments:
Post a Comment