The day after the season ended I was finally ready to admit my depression,
like the sadness of 27 summers of not winning the division compounded
into the longest late-September Monday in history.
The morning traffic wanted
to gridlock me into reflection. I knew there’d never be the same team twice,
or two exact at-bats, failure as unique as fingerprints and the nostalgic forces
I’ve always relied on: cutting the grass as the radio emanates the pinball
ongoing at Coors, the injecting of myself into the broadcast
just to imagine the ability to keep the same face after a K as a homer.
I still see myself with trouble sleeping, all the baseballs in my garage likely
to sprout legs to steal crooked bases in my dreams. And after another season
we believed was going to turn out differently, I’ll cover the diamond
a see-through plastic, in total darkness, and turn on all the sprinklers.