There's always next year...
There must be thousands watching from beyond
The grave to see if Fenway hasn't yet
Embraced a champion. Even as the fronds
Of Paradise invite them to forget
With breezy whispers, something nags. They peer
Between the fragrant clouds that prop their feet
And wonder if maybe this is the year.
The bliss is nice and all, but incomplete.

And thousands more, between the pitchfork jabs,
Between staccato pops of frying skin,
Can't help but think, "The pennant's up for grabs!"
They crawl on charred, unyielding knees-again-
To beg the pin-striped maitre d' to flip
The channel from Fear Factor to the game.
They don't understand the curl of his lip;
This favor meets his quota just the same.

I'd like to think that once, before I croak,
The Sox will hoist a banner. Or at least
I'll find some way to shrug off the rough yoke
Of this perverse affection. I'm no beast
To graze a life of summers all away
On box scores, rally caps, and ballpark cud.
There's love, and travel, and tennis to play,
And, after downpours, bare toes to plow mud.

But how, arriving at the pearly gates,
Or splashing down into the burning lake,
Could I decline the extra pang that waits
For those who sweated through the Flynns and Blakes
Just to glimpse Casey redeemed? Could I pass
Among the saints and not add to my store
Of blessings the sweet relief that at last
I don't have to hate Bucky Dent anymore?