An Ode to a Waggle


No, no, go not to Boston, nor lose that twist
glove waggling, spinning, confusing the swine;
Nor allow thy stats to suffer away from Wrigley mist,
By dollar signs, and contract time;
Make not your bed of 75% cotton, 25% linen, all green,
Nor let the batter assuage his fears.
Your fancy whimsy Waggle, and split finger change,
Are all a function of some forgotten dream;
For age comes to all pitchers, and not too drowsily —
To drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

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With a phone full of pictures of pitchers’ fingers, strange beers, and his two toddler sons, Eno Sarris can be found at the ballpark or a brewery most days. Read him here, writing about the A’s or Giants at The Athletic, or about beer at October. Follow him on Twitter @enosarris if you can handle the sandwiches and inanity.

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A true poet.