BP Unfiltered: The Love Song Of P. Scott Proefrock

 

LET us play then, you and I,
When the diamond is spread out against the sky
Like a fly ball rolling past a defender;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted baselines,
The muttering confines
Of restless nights in three-night cheap hotels
And sawdust ballparks with retractable domes:
Fungoes that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our weigh-in.

 

In the room the beatwriters come and go
Talking of Ruben Amaro.

 

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Why right field?” and, “Why right field?”
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which the official scorer will reverse.

 

In the room the beatwriters come and go
Talking of Ruben Amaro.

 

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the pop flies and the liners and the cans of corn,
After the GIFs, after the E9s, after the throws that roll along the field—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the plays in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, watching a TV or reading a box score,
And turning toward the reporter, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”