Of Baseball and Dead Dreams

On the pages of sorrow
On the pages of glee
This poem is thus written
For Don Mattingly

Oh, thee of first base
Ever resolute
Thy always did strive
To make the out

At the hitter’s plate
That you found your home
Your swing, ever sturdy
Did bat you along

To two hundred and twenty two homers
The bases you round
And in ninety eighty five
You were the Most Valuable Player, around…

All of Major League Baseball
Or what it then was to me
A glorious game
Where all history

Was met and deducted
By numbers so true
That every man who played
Was on card thus produced

In packets by millions
Some even with gum
By that you learned numbers
By that you had fun

But in learning in code
That all numbers are suspect
You will ever know
You will ever regret

That numbers produced
Are only mere sorrow
And that number 23
Means nothing tomorrow

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