by Michael Hoban
Baseball is our greatest game. I think it is quite clear.
Its wondrous past and following, it really has no peer.
The hit, the catch, the stolen base, the variety within.
Where else does someone "sacrifice" to help his team to win?
When I was young, we played the sport right on a city street,
Or at least a variation -- where a bunch of us would meet.
To us it was the sense of joy that's why we played the game.
We never dreamed great players would ever bring us shame.
It was a time of heroes Mickey, Willie and the Duke.
Knights in shining armor, not a single one a fluke.
Baseball was the purest sport, of that we had no doubt.
Our sorrow was the Black Sox (or when Casey did strike out).
(See the complete poem at The Hall of Doubt? by Michael Hoban)