It all seemed so promising as the
season progressed, streaks &
slumps & 'no way's, 'who'd'a
thunk it's' & 'did you see that? 's.' Peaking at the right
time, rallying to the
top, defying all odds & preseason forecasts, in the
end only to be absorbed in the rush of the hometown
crowd invading the
field otherwise reserved for the Talent after
the Last Out, one last, network
pan of the
dugout confirming the failure,
loss,
finality, '...no
Blue Ribbon for second best...'
'till next year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
hopes, dashed. Curtailed in mid-flight. And another season bites the dust: glory high to glory low. Meh. Next season. We (Phillies) are picking up speed. best care, xxsjg