The smell of bermuda in the fall
A leather-bound glove to catch a ball
A capacity crowd to see the game
If my team doesn't win, it's considered a shame.
Our roots, our fiber, our love and our need
Have been subjected to their hideous greed
The mighty dollar wins it all
My glove this time will catch no ball.
The strike it seems does coincide
With little-league dreams that have up-and-died
They have snatched away our patriotic pasttime
Without thought of the public or reason or rhyme.
We live to see a winner crowned
With the World Series trophy hand-me-down
The loser forgotten, absorbed in defeat
The winner carried shoulder-high through
This season brings no pennant, no winner
As we contemplate a lonely winter
Of frozen grass and frozen talks
No strikes or hits, homeruns or walk.
As grown-ups can we explain this mess
Of player politics and owners' stress
To kids who live to just play ball
On the bermuda-grass during the front-end of Fall.
Brian M. Sexton
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