The game of statistics

The tune for the other game of statistics

The Boston Globe printed this poem.

By Mary Oliver October 13, 2007

In the language of baseball
I am 3 and 2,
and not so nimble
as I was once

and the game, at the moment,
is indecisive.
There are many poets
who love baseball
which is, after all,
a metaphor
for many things
that happen when there isn’t a game.

The ball gleams forth, and high,
and maybe it’s a hit
or maybe the runner is out.
Nothing is certain except the way

the old players hang on
to their smarts, their prowess
as long as they can
while the luminous young

keep showing up,
so swift, so quick,
with such light in their eyes
and such beautiful swings.

As I watch the playoffs, the metaphors abound, and call for sharing. Different ages, different teams, same glorious sport.