i'm in love with the thousand yard stare
deeply towards the worn fold
of the catcher's glove
have mercy it's tag and buzz season
which means the temperature must be rising in here
it's finally gonna happen, i've been waiting
forever for the team to make an offseason move
that will return the stove to its hotness
the analysts never finish being pessimistic
which is a little bit scandalous, although
mostly they end up being dangerously right
you can see it like a bad weather forecast
every year we all like to ask our ceilings
please, are they going to come light us up this year
can we agree that chin music can't be accounted for
in the myth of the first pitch strike
and can we conclude that nobody will ever be
anything like a perfect parabola
i never heard anyone say: i always wanted
to grow up to be a statistic
but then the broadcaster claims textbooks
nowadays neglect to break up classical probability
into two parts: there is discrete and continuous
and there has got to be discrete, damn it
and the commercial break may as well say
a little less conversation, a little more of –
there is as much determinism in baseball
as there is crying, and how often here
and in life, has anyone ever said
well, that was exactly what i expected
i'm in love with the thousand yard stare
deeply towards the worn fold
of the catcher's glove
the familiar foreign smell of pine tar
drying like ink on multi-million dollar contracts
we made a lot of mistakes, but maybe
we'll get this one right
muscle mass put on and burned off
in the most ungodly hours of the morning
while looking outside and thinking
soon the sprinklers will come on
and we are all going to burn together
under the ruthless bloom of texas sun
it's what we came here for, learning to love
how we melt like lemon chills into bleacher seats
enthusiasm finally clawing its way above
the mendoza line, despite the strange & continued
tributes to the military industrial complex?....
the hooking curve, our supplications
against linear regression, and to maintain
a fierce and steadfast opposition against
the inevitable inertia of infield astro turf
april will forever be the cruelest
most beautiful month, and i think
god damnit
i'm in god damn love with the thousand yard stare
deeply towards the god damn fold
of the god damn catcher's glove
