BASEBALL: A METAPHOR
by Geoffrey Jones
The anthem escapes into the sky and
Disappears among clouds that pose no
Immediate threat to the proceedings…
And diamonds are a fans best friend…
Blades of bright green grass stand
Clipped and manicured in opposition
To the rust colored dirt that soon will
Stage the game… That mystical
Pastime which can only be denied by
The most jaded of spirits…
Home plate is set like a gem where
The left and right field lines intersect…
At a ninety degree angle that defines
The boundaries of western civilization
As we know it… The lines speak truth
To chaos and underscore the primacy
Of order and time-honored traditions…
Everything else is foul… And the object
Of the game is to keep the ball safely
In play… Straight down the middle…
Over the plate… That place where
Most people call home…
And where else would you take your son
Or daughter to teach them all about life…
Or to enjoy a warm summer afternoon…
Pretzels, beer, and hot dogs are eagerly
Consumed by weary people who come to
This place to lose themselves… Or to find
Themselves for a few precious hours…
Away from the fury and the fright of
Everyday life… And it’s the integrity…
The sheer democracy of the game…
Without compromise or irony… That
Keeps them coming back year after year…
It’s the purity and the justness that
Speaks to the hearts of the ordinary men
And women in the stands who live by
A certain code…
Billboards on the outfield wall endorse
Hand soap, shaving cream, and laundry
Detergents in colorful ways… But walls
Are not always useful or pleasing to
The eye… But sooner or later everything
Is finally distilled and neatly summarized
In a catalogue of simple truths… As “Play
Ball” rings out from behind the plate… It’s
All about the game…
The lead-off hitter digs in and taps the back
Of his cleats with the tip of his bat… A
Pitcher winds up and delivers a wicked
Slider… As the ump, like a courtroom judge…
Crouches down low to make the call…
“Strike one”, he barks… While the ghosts
Of Aaron, Mantle, and Mays disagree…
But that’s the American way… Sweet,
Priceless dissent…
And dissent alone doesn’t make America
Great again… To think that way is to
Suggest that America has stopped being
Great… Such rubbish… Good riddance
To bad trash… It’s honest dissent that
Establishes and defends our greatness…
The batter turns in anger and glares at
The ump…
No one comes to major harm on the
Ballfield… And no one is ever turned
Away… Surnames on uniforms affirm
The goodness of our nature and applaud
The efforts of players from somewhere
Else… Men who would play ball for free…
Simply for the love of it…
And now it’s April… Winter is gone and
Good things happen in Spring… And in
The time it takes to turn a slick double
Play the season will end… The dog days
Of July and August will fly by… To be
Filed away along with the recollections
Of other seasons past… The Series
Will yield another champion in October…
And yes, November will arrive soon
Enough… The clubhouse will be emptied…
There’s always a new season to embrace…
A new beginning… Rosters will change…
Thank God… And players will be assigned
To different positions… Some will be traded
Or injured… While some will be waived or
Benched… But this is all good… As bad
Seasons are swept away along with bad
Agendas…Next year’s opening day will
Hold better things in store… Along with the
Revelation that some players are strictly
Minor league…