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Baseball Opera

J. Quinn Brisben


A ballet overture commences
With stadium and auditorium
Waltzing and boogalooing,
Fusing diamond horseshoe
With skyboxes, astroturf
Losing its unreality among
The other stage set elements.

Then Rheingold is praised
In paper cups by a chorus
Of watery beer maidens,
And a pants-part batboy
Sings a tale of long ago
Told him by his grandfather,
Of teams long since wizarded
To alien shores, but the memory
Of the clutch homer hit
By Bobby Thompson to win
The playoff echoes resounding
In a high A above high C
Caught in the upper decks
By a suddenly enriched hearer.

The crowd is urged to be
“Moved uniformly by a spirit
Of uselessness which delights
Them,” enjoying the shake-offs
And time-out recitatives.
For no one is truly a fan
Without reveling in dull spots
So meaningful to the connoisseur.

After the celebrated stretching chorus,
The tenor pitchers duel in
Alternating bel canto trills is
Stopped by the baritone thwack
Of one going to Waveland Avenue
Or into orbit with the memory of
Sutherland and Horne in Semiramide,
Or Ted Williams trotting diva-like home,
Or the other moments for grandchildren
On tape or disc, but the best is memory
Of being there, seeing and hearing
A body akin to ours exceed itself
Just for the humanity of it.





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