I help you store the “Number One”
foam fingers in their box;
and clean the grease of hot dog stands;
and check the many locks;
and help you stack the bleachers up,
douse house lights in the gym, while listening to your baleful cries,
your curses thrown at him
who turned the spheroid over,
or flubbed the easy pass,
or watched the orb go unretriev’d,
as it bounced off the glass.
You weren’t the only one to boast
his team would be the king,
only to hear instead the taunt
cheerleaders love to sing,
the lonesome sound of dreams denied
that makes the true fan cry:
“Na na nana, na na nana,
hey hey hey, good-bye …”
-- James Cummins
Ed. note: The poem, though it may or may not have been written on March 15, marks the end of March Madness this evening and subtly welcomes the baseball season, which annually proves the wisdom of Alexander Pope: "Hope springs eternal in he human breast."
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