‘Change’ is all around us. It affects us all – the young, older or old. It is not partial. It affects every form and aspect of our reality. We are in an uncompromising position. We have to adjust; we have to adapt. We must go on; we must survive.
And so, there are many ‘stories’ to be told of the varied examples of the momentary gridlock caused by these confrontations at the moment of ‘change.’ This poem is not about ‘change’ due to human loss, or governmental overthrow, disasters or human relationships, it is about a routine – an interrupted sports routine……treated generically here, but ever so present to many over the last few decades, where their favorite arenas of the heart, disappeared.
The Game Is Finally Over
The pace of the game remained much the same
for the first seven innings or so.
The toll of the heat made the hitting so weak
it destined a score very low.
From south of the border came the top of the order
with Sanchez and Hernandez due up.
And with the game’s end in range, the skipper made a change
and brought in his “stopper,” named Krupp.
Tall in his stance, and you could tell at first glance,
he was steadfast, determined and good.
But the first pitch was low and Sanchez’s strong blow
is a record that’s forever, stood.
No one would go, shocked by the blow
that ended the career of young Krupp,
who gave up the fight as if seeing the light,
after pitching one low instead of up.
The ages of man won’t soon understand
why some things go down, not up.
And forgotten’s the game and probably the name,
of the unknown pitcher named Krupp.
The twilight now falls o’er the outfield walls;
a hush now stills the stands.
Memories once sewn…to the young….unknown;
now forgotten by all the fans.
Throughout the park, once light, now dark;
they no more come from Dover.
No down, no up. No kid named, Krupp.
The game is finally over.
The park is bare……no one to care.
No one to yell or scream.
No friends to meet or heroes to greet;
what was…..now but a dream.
And it won’t be long, it’ll all be gone,
all buried beneath the loam.
And grass with its pace, will cover each base
and a place we all call…..”home.”
copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano