Ode to the demise of baseball's beauty


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

the street.

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

Education Sophomore

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