“Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or games, are created equal.” -George Will
Dear Reader,
It’s been a while. Life post paternity leave has had its major share of ups and downs. Like emerging from cloud cover, the sun hits you and for a moment you are blinded, and those few seconds of fuzzy color seem to last forever. Writing has ground to a halt and the only offering I could muster was a single poem, an ode to the game I love, and a team whose seemingly impossible run blurs the line between myth and reality.
It’s well documented that I am a self-loathing, lifelong Mets fan, a franchise notorious for abandoning its fans and leaving them to wallow in pity and misery. But even the worst teams get their moments and this year it seems that the baseball gods, whoever they may be, are wearing blue and orange. Maybe our fortunes have turned, or perhaps the gods remain cruel, but no matter the outcome 2024 has been a wild ride. It’s certainly been a season worthy of poetry.
#LGM
-Ryan
WHY I BELIEVE IN BASEBALL GODS
Mets @ Brewers, Final Score: 4-2. METS WIN!
I'm only a pagan come October, when the
air cools and the leaves burn bright
and expectation fills the air like
incense spooling from marble altars,
and prayers like candles light the night.
And maybe Odin, after losing his bout
with Christ, figured an American pastime
would have to do, and Zeus
for all his thunder, settled for blessing bats,
heeding the prayers of grown men
who long after boyhood still wear
their baseball caps.
Maybe last night, one of them listened,
and in the bottom of the ninth worked
a little magic—and I, agnostic at best, atheist at worst
summoned up the faith
to ask for a blast over the right field fence.