The Serious Series is over.
The echoes of shouting have died.
The bookies have paid off the winners.
In warm beer the losers have cried.
It's less than an earth-shaking triumph.
A lot of folks don't even care.
I've read that the numbers were less than impressive,
Which isn't especially rare.
There's football to keep us distracted
From matters more crucial each day,
And basketballs soon will be bouncing in earnest
From Boston way out to L.A.
Of course there is also the soccer
That's played by the MLS clubs;
Some folks will buy tickets and watch it in person,
While some do their viewing in pubs.
But baseball's not missed as it once was,
When warm nights give way to the cold.
The game has been slandered for being too slow
And the audience? Buddy, it's old.
To balk at the trend would be pointless,
For there is no arguing taste.
The diamonds once called "green cathedrals,"
Now widely regarded as paste,
Are no longer primary places
For fathers to bond with their sons,
For blocking and tackling have taken the places
Of pitches and bunts and homeruns.
And daughters, as well as their mothers,
Are much less inclined to be backers
Of Yankees or Giants or Royals
Than Seahawks or Steelers or Packers.
The summer game still has attractions,
No matter it ends in the fall...
For the people who still have reactions
To the bat and the glove and the ball.
It ends as the monsters and goblins
Dress up for their scariest night,
And the cold when it's over spreads over the land
Like the frost in the glowing moon's light.
The nights are much longer without it,
Or so it can certainly seem.
It's gone, not forgotten, and coming again,
Like the best sort of late autumn dream.
Bill Littlefield's new book, titled "Take Me Out," features poems about games and sports.