A Good Weekend

      This week started out with the tension of anticipating the RSU Theatre Program's production of Texaco Mornings, to go along with the nervousness of phantom midterms. So there was a lot of anxious cleaning.
      And then Tuesday morning I heard back from a job-application email the week before, which is rare and stressful, because A: you're talking to a stranger, B: on the phone, C: about yourself, and D: trying to make a good impression. I was basically hung up on, which is how that usually ends, but at least I heard back.
     "Hey, I think I can actually make it! Like maybe Friday night." Ashland texts me somewhere early in the week.

     Wednesday Caleb was supposed to start his first day working for Justin, except he couldn't get there because the truck broke down. (It's since been sort-of-fixed, I think.)
     Crashed the youth group because I hadn't heard the end of David Platt's sermon series on "Angels, Demons and Spiritual Warfare" because my freshman year at NSU had already started. The sermon was interesting. And also, it was DC Talk Night in the Throwback Christian Music series, and I'm like the resident DC Talk expert.

     Thursday night Caleb had a MEND fundraiser he was volunteering for, along with Hope, Mattie, Seth and Laura. That seemed to go well. Trevor and Amy had swimming, so everybody was happily busy. Wasn't able to make it to the opening night, but it's one of those things that couldn't be helped. The quiet house was nice;; read through a book of Billy Collins poetry from the OKC book sale.
     Andrew said there was a great crowd; I know Debra and Cody both made it. "Proud of you, man!" Cody said. Dr. Dial-Driver wasn't able to make it, but she sent me a nice message, and she had everyone give her a report. ("I told her that even if you didn't know Wes wrote it, you'd know Wes wrote it," Dr. Mackie said).

      Friday morning was a good day for blasting Jars of Clay while cleaning.
      I missed the landmark 100th episode of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. that night, but it was totally worth it. Not every day your play is produced. (But IT SHOWED FITZSIMMONS' WEDDING, which I would have loved almost as much as Andy and April's or Ben and Leslie's. Maybe I'm okay with weddings as long as they're fictional?)
      "Looks like I'll be seeing you tonight," Ashland texts me. She tackle-hugged me as soon as I'd gotten both feet into Baird Hall, pretty much. "I told people I knew you, and it was like, I knew a celebrity or something!"
     About eighteen to twenty people were in the audience, which was a decent size. It was great to see Andrew, David and Dr. Mackie again. I also recognized a couple classmates I knew by sight. The Ruscos came, which I wasn't expecting. It was weird seeing the script performed, but the audience seemed to like it. The acting wasn't the best, but it wasn't awful, either. The actors missed or mangled about twenty percent of the lines, mostly skipping the dramatic parts. "This is a lot funnier than it should be," was all my brain registered in the moment.
     We stopped by Taco Bueno afterward, and were quickly reminded neither of us liked it. But late-night conversations are always good, even if the food isn't great. Mostly the topic was INFJ-ism in the workplace, and commiserating the general difficulties of college and young adulthood  "I was like, 'You okay?' You were really tense," she grinned once we'd gotten into dissecting the performance. (This didn't register at all.) We both graded it a high C, mostly because the actors who played siblings were obviously strangers, which was a little awkward.

     Since it was going to be rainy, and because it was cheap and indoors, we decided to go to the Gilcrease Art Museum Saturday morning. It was fun. We rummaged through Indian artifacts all National Treasure-y, roamed through pretty much everywhere, and wished our photography skills were better. Since the temporary Norman Rockwell exhibit was still there, of course we had to see that - I kept a lookout for security guards while she illegally snapped photos to show her grandma. We didn't get caught.
     Since it was beautiful weather, we prowled around the grounds outside taking pictures of the flowers and tree buds. We got some good pictures, and we also got chased by wasps for our troubles. Ignoring tradition, we actually got a couple good selfies this time.

     We only got minorly lost on the way home, Taylor Swift blasting on Pandora, and we had lunch at Whataburger since she wanted to try it. The food was greasy and delicious, the convo was good.
   
     A huge crowd showed up for Saturday night's closing performance; probably thirty-five to forty people. Talked to Brandon, saw Brittany on the other side of the room. Only about five percent of the lines were missing, and different moments were seen as humorous. Andrew did a great job directing. It got a high B grade. 

     The premiere of the sixteenth season of American Idol was tonight on ABC; the editing was unfocused, but it has potential. Luke Bryan, Katy Perry and Lionel Richie seem like they'll work well together.

Capstone

     Just sent in my completed Capstone project and portfolio ten minutes ago. I think I may throw up or cry now from the strain of final assembly/repairing/tinkering with it basically nonstop all weekend* (yes, I know it's technically early Wednesday morning). It's as polished and academic-sounding as I could make it, and deadline was roughly ten later this morning. So I beat the deadline. And now I anxiously wait for two or three weeks before hearing the verdict of the Capstone Committee.

     The topic was country music as poetry, and 92 songs were mentioned in about 35 pages. That was just scratching the surface, though, because I had to assume readers aren't familiar with the genre. Nineteen more songs were mentioned/alluded to in a seven-page short story supplement. (It's not a good story, but it's adequate.)
     Nine songs were from Brad Paisley, and I could have included way more from him. Keith Urban, Taylor Swift, Kenny Chesney and Garth Brooks, too (only four examples from each of them).

     In other news, it was a very stormy Oklahoma spring day, full of hail, so it seemed entirely appropriate that "The Thunder Rolls" and "Blown Away" were Songs of the Day.

*Facebook status from Sunday night - "Type type type, worry type worry, pace around apartment, tap tap tappity tap worry, get snack, go for walk, type, delete most of what has been written, worry, go for another walk, type some more...." Except for the excessive worrying due to the stress because Capstone is IMPORTANT, this is a pretty typical work pattern for a writer. 

April Firsts

     Another April Fool's Day with no tricks played on anyone. Rats. I did finish the first 5K race I ever entered this morning, so that's something, though. There were 92 entrants total, and I finished 39th overall with a time of 38:17. That was sixth out of seven in my division, and I mainly walked most of the way (I'm a sprinter; and terrible at anything resembling distance.) Maybe because I walk everywhere that was why I finished midpack? I'm used to traveling on foot, so I've learned to be more efficient? I don't know. I'm pretty sure most 5K's aren't run with a soundtrack of poetry playing in your mind, though. Snatches of Rudyard Kipling's "If" were narrated by Plato the Buffalo from Adventures From the Book of Virtues. (I know he recites it during an episode, but can't find that clip at the moment.) My goal was just to finish, and I did that, so next time I'll have a time to aim to beat.

     In other news....let's see. I donated blood for the first time two weeks ago, and I survived. I was afraid it was going to be like Ashland's horror story of the first time she tried donating blood (which won a Random Status of the Week Award). Like her, I also apparently have small veins. Unlike her story, there was no blood spurting everywhere. Three nurses looked at my arm before deciding they found one big enough - but I'm blaming this on their being exhausted from working all day. (It was like 4:45 on a Wednesday afternoon.) Once they found a vein the right size, it took about three minutes to finish filling the little bag, which they said was a lot faster than normal. My arm didn't bruise or anything, but the pricked finger they tested my iron levels on hurt for a couple days, and it was hard to type. (Your middle finger on the left hand is used often in typing - and so I couldn't play guitar for a while, either.)

     This week's movie in Gothic Film and Lit was a 1991 mystery directed by Kenneth Branagh called Dead Again. The plot was incredibly complicated, but it was a good movie. And well-constructed. (On rereading Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle, it was much better, because I could look at the mechanics of how she built the plot and notice all the foreshadowing.) Robin Williams played a serious role as a homeless psychiatrist, and Wayne Knight (Stan from Space Jam, Dennis Nedry in Jurassic Park) was in it, too.

     In not-for-school-but-for-sanity reading, I just finished Billie Letts's novel Where the Heart Is, which was full of thoroughly weird but incredibly real characters. I liked it. (It was made into a movie starring Natalie Portman.) And a biography of Agatha Christie (titled plainly Agatha Christie: A Biography) by Janet Morgan had some good parts, though it was somewhat dense and the pace was glacially slow. It would have been better if it were read concurrently with her autobiography.

     Capstone is due Wednesday, so all the seniors in the English Department are kind of freaking out. I have to (try to) tame my nemesis, ACADEMIC TONE IN WRITING, enough to pass the Committee's judgment. I think I can, I think I can...just keep swimming.... Dr. Mackie and Dr. Dial-Driver will both do their best to argue for me, so that's something.

     There've been at least three fire alarms in the last 36 hours, much to my annoyance.

     The beginning of April means that it's also the start of Stupid Profile Picture Week, and something like the sixth year it's been held. This is what my hair looks like after I get out of the shower. It tends to fall straight over my face.

Song on May Morning

     This poem was written in 1632-33 by John Milton, and I found it in a 1909 copy of the Vol. No. 4 of the Harvard Classics "Complete Poems in English" series.

"Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
"Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hills and dales doth boast thy blessing.
"Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long."

Results and Roses

     It's time for another Edgar Guest poem. This one I found late last night/early this morning on page 389 of The Book of Virtues, in the chapter on Work.

"The man who wants a garden fair,
Or small or very big,
With flowers growing here and there,
Must bend his back and dig.

"The things are mighty few on earth
That wishes can attain,
Whate'er we want of any worth
We've got to work to gain.

"It matters not what goal you seek
Its secret here reposes:
You've got to dig from week to week
To get Results or Roses."

Reflections on the Gift of a Watermelon Pickle

     This is an amazing poem. Written(I think) by a man named John Tobias, it bears the extremely long title "Reflections on the Gift of a Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend called Felicity." Read through it yesterday in lit, which is where I came across it. Sort of a poetic equivalent to Lucy Maud Montgomery's The Golden Road, and the spirit of other books like it.

"During that summer
When unicorns were still possible,
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned,
When shiny horse chestnuts
(Hollowed out
Fitted with straws
Crammed with tobacco
Stolen from butts
In family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

"During that summer -
Which may have never been at all,
But which has become more real
Than the one that was -
Watermelons ruled.

"Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins,
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
At the walls
At the wind
At each other;

"And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

"The bites are fewer now
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

"But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer that maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue
Unicorns become possible again."

Gone Forever

     This poem was written by a guy named Barriss Mills, I probably wouldn't have ever heard of it if I wasn't taking this literature class this semester.

"Halfway through shaving, it came -
The word for a poem.
I should have scribbled it
On the mirror with a soapy finger,
Or shouted to my wife in the kitchen,
Or muttered it over and over to myself
Til it ran in my head like a tune.

"But now it's gone with the whiskers
Down the drain. Gone forever,
Like the girls I never kissed,
And the places I never visited,
The lost lives I never lived."

It Couldn't Be Done

     One of the finds at the book sale this year was a book of poems, well, actually two books put together, of poems by Edgar Guest, my favorite poet of all time. In it is found the full version of "It Couldn't Be Done", from "The Path to Home When Day is Done", published in 1919.

"Somebody once said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

"Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one has ever done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

"There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle right in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackled the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it."

L'Envoi

     I'm not exactly sure what this poem by Rudyard Kipling  means, but it's interesting, and very famous.

"When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the oldest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

"And those who were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from - Magdalene, Peter and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

"And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!"

All Things Bright and Beautiful

     I learned this poem in fourth grade, you often see it on signs and cross-stitches, and there's an Owl City CD named after it. Written by Cecil Francis Alexander.

"All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

"Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.

"The purple-headed mountains,
The river running by,
The sunset, and the morning,
That brightens up the sky.

"The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,
He made them, every one.

"The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
We gather every day.

"He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well."

Little Boy Blue

     This is very sad, but it's a very good poem. Written by Eugene Fields.

"The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands;
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier passing fair; And that was the time our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go til I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamed of the pretty toys;
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue -
Oh! the years are many, the years are long;
But the little toy friends are true!

"Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place -
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
And the smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there."

A Time To Talk

     This is by Robert Frost, found it in The Book of Virtues' "Friendship" chapter. I probably should try to work on this more often, sort of why I'm posting it, as a reminder.

"When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
At all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, "What is it?"
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod; I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit."

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

     Read this poem in Lit today, it's terrific. Perfectly captures what's wrong with public education/higher education, and how we really learn. Written by Walt Whitman.

"When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

It's Tough On a Dog

One of the saddest poems I've ever heard...heard this on the radio one night as we were coming up on Speedy's gas station, never knew who wrote it until I just looked it up on a dog website; the listed author there was a Jean W. Sawtell. Reminds me of "The Giving Tree", one of my favorite picture books in all history. Mimi would have enjoyed this, I think.

"It's tough on a dog,
When his boy grows up,
When he no longer romps and frolics like a pup;

"It's tough on a dog,
When his boy gets old,
When they no longer cuddle on his bed when it gets cold;

"It's tough on a dog,
When his boy gets tall,
When he's off with the boys playing soccer and baseball;

"They no longer paddle through the mud and the bog,
Hoping to find a stray turtle or frog;
They no longer run through the grass up to their knees,
Or roll in piles of fresh fallen leaves;

"It's tough on a dog,
When his boy gets tall,
When he's off to school, and looking at girls in the hall;

"It's tough on a dog,
When he has work to do,
And forgets to play as he used to do;

"It's tough on a dog when
Instead of the woods or the fields or the pond,
His boy becomes a man -
And the man is gone."

It's tough on the boy, too.

Mom's Favorite Poem

     This is my mom's all-time favorite poem, no idea where she found it or who the author was. But it just seemed to fit life this week, comes in handy pretty often as a motivational tool.

"Somebody once said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied,
That maybe it couldn't;
But he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.

"So he buckled right in
With the trace of a grin
On his face.
(If he worried, he hid it.)

"He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done
AND HE DID IT!"

Keep a-Goin'

     Listening to DC Talk and trying to get started on studying...maybe this poem will help. From my "One Hundred and One Famous Poems" book, on page 135, is "Keep a-Goin'", written by Frank L. Stanton.

"If you strike a thorn or rose,
Keep a-goin'!
If it hails or if it snows,
Keep a-goin'!
'Taint no use to sit an' whine
When the fish ain't on your line;
Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' -
Keep a-goin'!

When the weather kills your crop,
Keep a-goin'!
Though 'tis work to reach the top,
Keep a-goin'!
S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime,
Gittin' broke ain't a crime;
Tell the world you're feelin' prime -
Keep a-goin'!

When it looks like all is up,
Keep a-goin'!
Drain the sweetness from the cup,
Keep a-goin'!
See the wild birds on the wing,
Hear the bells that sweetly ring,
When you feel like sighin', sing -
Keep a-goin'!"

The Perfect Dinner Table

     Another Edgar Guest poem. I found this one in The Book of Virtues, pages 241-42.

"A tablecloth that's slightly soiled
Where greasy little hands have toiled;
The napkins kept in silver strings,
And only ordinary things
From which to eat, a simple fare;
And just the wife and kiddies there,
And while I serve, the clatter glad
Of little girl and little lad
Who have so very much to say
About the happenings of the day.

"Four big round eyes that dance with glee,
Forever flashing joys at me,
Two little tongues that race and run
To tell of troubles and of fun;
The mother with a patient smile
Who knows that she must wait awhile
Before she'll get a chance to say
What she's discovered throughout the day,
She steps aside for girl and lad
Who have so much to tell their dad.

"Our manners may not be the best;
Perhaps our elbows often rest
Upon the table, and at times
That very worst of dinner crimes,
The very shameful act and rude,
Of speaking ere you've downed your food,
Too frequently, I fear, is done,
So fast the little voices run,
Yet why should their table manners stay
Their tongues that have so much to say?

"At many a dinner table I have been
Where wealth and luxury were seen,
And I have dined in halls of pride
Where all the guests were dignified;
But when it comes to pleasure rare
The perfect dinner table's where
No stranger's face is ever known:
The dinner hour we spend alone,
Where little girl and little lad
Run riot telling things to dad."

Home

     This poem is one of my favorites, written by a man named Edgar A. Guest, I found it in a wonderful old 1958 paperback titled "One Hundred and One Famous Poems".

"It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home;
A heap of sun and shadder, an' ye sometimes have to roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
And hunger for 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get to be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great  yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, and men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used - they're grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer  tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories
O' her that was an' is no more - ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance  fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jest to run
The way they do, so's they would get  the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome;
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home."

Baseball

   A few weeks ago, on the night before my moving out, my family and I went to a minor-league baseball game as kind of a last all-together celebration-type thing. We used to have season tickets, went to many, many games over the years, but lately have gone to about one game every two or three years.

   None of us had ever been to the new stadium that was built a few years ago, and my siblings had free tickets from participating in the library's summer reading program, so those provided good excuses to see a ballgame. Interesting atmosphere around the park, lots of neat old architecture to look at. Once inside, our tickets were on the grassy lawn in right field, so it was a little hard to judge what the new field was like, as we couldn't see much and were surrounded by crickets, popcorn and little kids chasing the crickets, trying to capture them. We're pretty baseball-illiterate, so Dad and I tried to answer Caleb's questions about what was happening as best we could.
   So, it was a little hard to make a judgement on the actual stadium itself, not being in the stands. But one thing's for sure: It just isn't Drillers Stadium. We left in the middle of the sixth inning, have no idea if Tulsa even won or not. But it was kind of sad, for most of us. We were all slightly bored, and Mom, Dad and I were thinking of memories of my growing up, and all the times I'd tagged along on youth group nights and things like that, re-enacting last night's game in the apartment, or playing catch with Katie while Mr Rae watches from his back porch and yells encouragement, with all the dogs on the block yapping loudly.

   No, I'm not much a fan of baseball, though I try to keep up with the Cardinals. (Always sort of liked them, and I've got friends in St Louis and Springfield, home of their AA team.) And I used to hate the game. But somewhere along the way of being forced to watch, covering high school games for the paper, and then playing cabbage ball in the summertime, I learned to tolerate it, and occasionally even enjoy the peculiar style of big plays and important moments.
   I have a lot of friends who LOVE it, though; and that's fine. If they enjoy it, let them, and I'll enjoy watching their enjoyment. Josh has played for practically forever until he stopped last summer, trying to figure out where to go next. Dylan played a little, and Cassady went on to play college softball. I know a family who goes down to see Rangers games every chance they get, and a few who about flew through the roof during last year's World Series. That was interesting, being Texas-St Louis, and so I knew people (rabidly) rooting for both sides. And my goodness, Game 6...that was amazing! I had the TV on all night, checking the score once in a while, and then tuned in about the seventh or eighth inning. Things don't look too good for the Cards, but then comes that rally, and then it goes into extra innings, and then David Freese's play in the eleventh...that was awesome. I heard this one story of someone who went to Wal-Mart that night, naturally listening to the game on the radio. She sat in the car in the parking lot for over an hour, because things were that exciting and tense.THAT is why I love sports.

   My friend Emily is one of those people I mentioned who love the game, and try to stay in touch with it as much as is realistically possible. She wrote a poem about it one day, and then dug out an old essay from several years ago that she'd written, and put them on her blog. (See http://www.myearnestheart.blogspot.com/2012/05/game-baseball.html) The poem is this:

"The game has its balls and strikes,
The umpire never gets it right,
But that's the game; you'd better sit tight.
The game has its hits and runs,
Depending on which team you're on,
But that's the game; just take it, son.
The game is either home or away,
Doesn't matter, you better show up and play,
But that's the game, no matter what they say.
The game has its die-hard fans,
Who will yell and scream from the highest stands,
But that's the game; lend a hand.
The game has its ins and outs,
Drop third strike, you better run up a cloud,
But that's the game; help your team out.
The game is either won or lost,
Most try to win at all cost,
But that's the game; show 'em who's boss."

   It's a game for movies, a sport for stories. Really, can you imagine sports movies without "Field of Dreams", "The Sandlot", or "The Rookie"? How many millions of college students grew up playing ball in Tin Can Alley and Dirt Yards with Jocinda Smith, Pablo Sanchez and Tony Delvecchio, as the Super-Duper Wombats faced the Blue Rockets with Sunny Day and Vinnie the Gooch calling the action on Backyard Baseball? And will Charlie Brown's team ever win a game with him pitching? What would we do without the sport to foster our imaginations and pretend that we'll be the hero one day? I may complain about it, and make fun of it often, and usually wonder at all the things that don't make sense about the way the game is played. But it's important to our history, and without the game of baseball, sports would be missing something.

If

   The best poem ever written, from Rudyard Kipling.

"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
Yet make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies;
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat your two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools;
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop, and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss;
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve their turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 If you can walk with crowds and keep your virtue;
Or with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!"