The Game Of Baseball Poem by John F. McCullagh

It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.

It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins that last game

It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.

It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.