I would like to be all high-brow and such, but most poetry just zips right by me. Every few months I take another stab at a poem in the New Yorker and…nope…nothin’…
But this poem, which I heard on the way in this AM as read by Frank Deford, just totally reached me as I suspect it will you, even if you’re not into baseball.
Excellent poem!
I was afraid up to the end, oh no, that Casey was a hero. But reward did come to find at last that casey was a zero.
Mudville = Stockton CA. Still mired in the mud of bankruptcy.
My son will like this as he had a great time pitching last night — so getting the strike out at the end will appeal to him — it’s all a matter of perspective. Now if we could just get summer to start here…