The Yankees and Red Sox, I`ll admit it
a classic matchup, the radio ablaze with
the crowd at Fenway Park, the earthy
vernacular poetry of John Miller, pumping
the game with his insistent baritone pulse
the images in my mind much stronger
than anything a television can provide,
this is my link to the real America,
the america I love of pilgrims and twilight
ball games, of dirt and grit imagined
the tension of the runner at first base,
late innings, no outs
Red Sox one run behind
fans standing and shouting hoarse
incantations to break the curse,
pitcher looking, throwing down to first
runner back, three and two the count
the wind, the pitch
Giant bellweather roar erupting
affection mixed with blind belief,
that settles in for an extra innings saga
of tension, desire, no hint of relief.
