Through him I sheltered from the pain
on a sagging couch
My seat was nearest to the game
as he let those butterflies loose
And while they talked of free agents and prospects,
he transfigured the team into champions.
Though lads are making pikes again
Aimed at the front office or leadership,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At the Wilpon’s tyranny,
My contemplations are of the pitcher
That once transfigured me.
There’s not a fan turns his face
Upon a broken team,
And the knucklers that I loved
Are now in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time for stealing
That which has transfigured me.
[Stolen from Yeats, but the emotion is real]
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