Pre-game rain delay 3:20, time of game 2:17.
Let us go then, you and I,
Where the ballgame is played under drizzly sky
Like the stand that props a laden dripping clothesline;
Let us go, through empty Chicago seats,
The ashen lumber beats
In fading lights a long-night’s sleep can tell
And distant homers launched with massive knell:
Ringing follows and expedient hollering
And perfidious incense
To beat them in a homeward-coming present…
Oh, do not say, “We’re shitty!”
Let us go and wreck the city.
In the park the clubs have come to play
Talking of Rubiaceae.
The muddy ball is launched by arm to pass the batter’s box,
The muddy ball is launched by lumber from the batter’s box,
Made a thud into the bleachers void and empty,
Lingered within the benches chilled in rain,
Told true the Twins attack in sooth that punctures nimbly,
Sat on the concrete, late it fell asleep,
And seeing that it was a silent April night,
Curled up to hear the Sox, the fans that weep.
And indeed there will be time
For the muddy ball when found below the seat,
Launching a heart that dreams of batter’s box;
There will be time, there will be time,
To prepare the heart that dreams to start a fresh dream;
There will be time to homer at the plate,
And time for all the hopes and dreams and plans
To lift and build in blessing being great;
Time for you and time for me,
And time now for a thousand televisions,
And for a thousand visions and derisions,
Because the taking of a rout we see.
In the park the clubs have come to play
Talking of Rubiaceae.
And indeed there will be time
To ponder, “Who are STUDS?”, and “Who are DUDS?”
Those who rang loud and who fell with thuds,
And who balled out in their sprouting sporting buds—
(We will say: “How these STUDS can lead a win!”)
In leading off, an open inning striking on the chin,
Did Minny’s own Lord Byron, send the ball into a distant spin—
(We will say: “But how these STUDS can lead a win!”)
Do I dare
Assume exuberance?
When we’re winning there is time
For decisions and precisions when we’re winning coming first.
But have we mentioned all already, said them all:
Forget not Carlos, Carlos, swinging true,
Needing pleasure from a hit he tallied two,
His throat rejoices sighing with a dying quail,
His glove a music bringing springing bloom.
Who else is in the room?
And Pablo took the mound and steady, threw the ball—
His offers mixing in his calm related ways.
And when he is calm and sated, aiming at a pin,
Opponents pinned and whiffing doomed to fall,
The ball in rapid spin
And hitters on their butts and in a hazy daze?
Who else is in the room?
And Harrison came prepped and ready, standing tall—
Armed with a slugger’s bat and swinging fair
(And in the spotlight, launched it farther there!)
Is it certain he’s the best
That makes the fanbase blest?
Homers flying in the bleachers, a rap against a ball.
And who else is in the room?
Who else assured the win?
Shall I say, there is not a DUD to make it bleak
Amid a winning game to dull the bright
Horizon as the plane leaves, peeling from Chicago?…
We should have had our share of batted balls
Slipping beneath the gloves of Stocking fields.
And the aftermath, this evening, passes peacefully!
Winning thought lingers,
We sleep… tired… and dream of dingers,
Jacked to the seats, making the score increase.
Should we, if a single win suffices,
Fall again into a Minnesota crisis?
We know it has crept and lasted, crept and stayed,
Though now we look ahead (and standing tall) for wins to make a pattern,
Our minds will loft it — from here unto Saturn;
We can dream this moment heralds greatness thicker,
And we have seen our beloved Mascot jump and dance, and snicker.
And in short, all is a day.
And will it help our purpose, after all,
After the runs, the homering, the win,
Among the fanbase, among some talkers prone to spin,
Wanting to hurt our smiles,
To have written word that far too often riles,
To believe the losing words one and then all
And absorbed those with nary posing question,
To say: “We’re a losing team, luck is all dread,
Go back into our holes, we should numb our souls”—
Each one, with an exhilarated head,
Should say, “That is not who we are in whole,
That is not us, in whole.”
And will it help our purpose, after all,
To now promote our smiles,
After the offense and the defense and the sprinkled hits,
After the rainfall, after the clubhouse, after the plane and flying heading home—
And wish, and so much more?—
Is it yet possible to want this for our team?
But amid our witty banter in the thread with Comment of the Game:
Nagurski made words smile
With one, talking of poor signings for Minnesota ball,
In citing Joey Gallo, today:
“He was not good in whole.
He’s whom Santa should bring, the coal.”
Now! We’re the victors dammit, as we aim to be;
May any pennant soar, one now would do
For showing progress, spend a buck or two,
To help the Twins; no doubt, a cinch to do.
Any spending, glad to be of use.
So simple, hoping, so meticulous;
Full of high pennants, and a wish for truth;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Truth.
Now I know… now I know…
There’s a way for winning that this team can go.
Shall we make a playoff ride? Do we dare to take a piece?
I shall pray to see October, as fervent hearts increase.
I shall count these hopes as legal, not caprice.
I do not think that the past means anything.
For today was just a single winning day
Taking the White Sox down by six to one
In a win where we ought to have some fun.
We have lingered but it’s April yet to see
And seeing wins will fill our mental cup
And hope will ever keep us, keep us up.