Roll Call

Fans, for the past two weeks
you have been reading
baseball poetry.

Many before have written
of these grand men.
Ruth and Reggie,
Mantle and DiMaggio,
as many in the future
will write of Jeter and
(dare we hope?)
Cano.

Who wouldn't consider it
a privilege
to root for such a team?

We are a glass
half-full fanbase,
whose cup overfloweth.
Is it ungrateful to frown
over the unhappy times?

The wild pitch of Chesbro's,
the not-wild pitch of Terry's,
separated by a half-century,
and a half-century in the past
yet lingering even still?

To still have memories
dripping with venom
for Ed Whitson,
for Doyle Alexander,
for Carl Pavano,
for Kevin Brown?

To recall
even in his greatness,
Rivera bested by Cleveland,
bested by Arizona,
bested by Boston,
if not (yet?) bested by time?

Is it indulgent to feel for those
who lived in a land of plenty
in a time of famine?
Bobby Murcer and Al Orth,
Mel Stottemyre and Don Mattingly?

Perhaps.

We can be
belligerent,
obnoxious,
smug and unlikeable,
but we know in our hearts
we consider ourselves
the luckiest fans
on the face of the Earth.