Just fooling around here a bit: I’m neither ambitious enough nor knowledgeable enough about the game itself to parody the entirety of Eliot’s poem.
For John Updike, a baseball poet.
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Snowdrop out in Arizona, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Pennant thoughts with spring training.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with free agency rumors.
Percival surprised us, shunning Steinbrenner
For a fever of Rays; we stopped at the stadium,
And went on to Friday’s, into the Biergarten,
And drank our brews, and talked for an hour:
“How can you be a Yankees fan? You’re from Boston!”
And when we were children, watching our heroes,
My brothers, we went out to the park,
With our father. He said, Michael,
Michael, hold the ball light. Like an egg.
In the ballpark, there you feel free.
I read SI, much of the night, and watch ESPN in the winter.
Where have you gone, Cal Ripken, Jr.? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Baseball needs its heroes. America needs baseball.