I'm not a big sports fan in general. But there is one game that
I love, that I have loved since I was twelve years old and that
is baseball. I love the grace, the balletic quality of the players
in the field as they go for the ball. I love the twitchiness of the
batters at the plate as they fiddle with their gloves, adjust their
helmets, and play for time as they try to figure out what the
pitcher is going to throw next. I love watching the pitcher and
catcher collaborate as they work on a plan to get this guy out. I
love the fact that it is a timeless game; i.e., it's played without a
clock. The only limiting factor is 27 outs - and sometimes not
even that is enough. I love the fact that the same game can be
played by 6'2" Mike Trout and 5'6" (maybe on a good day) Jose
Altuve and that Jose Altuve can win, proving that size truly
doesn't matter, except maybe the size of the heart.
I think May Swenson loved baseball, too, and she summed it up
perfectly in this poem.
Analysis of Baseball
by May Swenson
and the mitt.
bat, or it
hit ball, bat
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
to take bat's
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
to a place
has to quit
and the fans.
on a diamond,
and for fun.
home, and it's