Don’t blame Ron Blomberg.
Without him this poem
Would flail after every
Ninth word. He must
Designate, take huge
Cuts, stripe drives
Down the third base line,
Jazz up the boxscore,
Pay the fans in batcracks,
Pinballs in the outfield.
Don’t fear the specialist.
His day is now.
This life’s always been
Just mustache and spit.
Let’s kill the bunt,
Light up the scoreboard.
Let us do what we all do best—
Celebrate the new strategies.
All the rules are meant to be
Rewritten and the past is
Nothing but a record of error,
Ledger of wasted offenses.
