Snowpocalypse report

So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.
Snow bears the imprints of all kind of feet;
Light, heavy, scared, brave, rushing, ambling, nice,
Hard-checking, winners, those who know defeat.

And ice is trodden down upon, it knows
Each taken step; unmoving, knows each crack
Could spell the end. The wind-buffeted snows
Clump together at the end, heading back.

The snow will drift away, move on, forget
Losses and forfeit wins (no one can say
If they would remember real ones), and yet
The ice endures, waiting to melt away

In the warmer season, after the games.
I still do not know all my teammates’ names.

I still do not know all my teammates’ names.
How can I see the game this far away?
Glasses intact (this time), but still the frames
Don’t let me get a good view of the play

Until I hear “Neither goal counted!” and
Resume my post (but near? far? which?) with pride.
Deflects, reflex, kick saves, crouch, slap, or stand;
I haven’t messed up yet and we’re still tied.

I sit out the second half. There’s no more
Scoring; we lose a penalty shootout.
The next week our team manages to score—
The game is unofficial, and a rout

The wrong way. Officially, though, we won;
Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.

Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.
“There aren’t enough of us to play,” they told
Me. Glowering, the season almost done,
I thought of the ref out there in the cold

Waiting in vain for our team just to show.
I went to tell her, not even a hassle.
Grass poked its way up through the melting snow
Then—no mirage, reflection, or ice castle—

I see my teammates. There they’ve come! It’s real!
But all too soon they say it’s not enough,
We’ll have to forfeit. It’s not that I feel
Usual frustration; each loss is tough

But after such joy, descent without fight?
Legends were made for this kind of a night.

Legends were made for this kind of a night
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
The wind blows snow up against each streetlight
As usual, but they say we’re snowbound.

It’s been two years. Don’t think we’ve scored a goal.
Maybe others don’t mind snowouts—I mind.
And now the Wrigley roof is less than whole—
For this I left the Metrodome behind?

There’s more to life than games, my teammates know;
(Some of whom don’t respect the game at all)
But I am not as rootless as the snow.
I want to stand my ground, to play broomball.

Risking cold isn’t that great of a price.
So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.

Crown of sonnets

Would you rather see beginnings or ends?
I haven’t given you enough to say.
Unless you know who’s playing, it depends
On many things; the sport, the round, the day.

If you were rooting, you’d watch from the start.
Loyal no matter how the game turns out.
Perhaps you’re busy, and need to depart
Halfway through. But when endings are in doubt

You live with hope. There’s no need to assume
Things won’t end well just because you’re behind.
Wonder what’s going on, fend off the gloom,
Uncertain what you will come home to find.

When there’s something to cheer for, win or lose,
Each moment matters. No news is good news.

Each moment matters. No news is good news
If all you want is for the game to take
As long as possible. You don’t know who’s
Playing. But when web sites show a mistake,

Unable to display the score, it draws
Us in. Though I can’t quite appreciate
The craziness of the scoreline, it awes
Me nonetheless. Even I know it’s great.

A play or two are silly wipeouts. Most
Are strangely simple; unreturned serves, aces,
Or sometimes vollies to another ghost
Sharing the same white clothing and pale faces.

Fast in its way, though saying that feels wrong,
The games quickly wrap up and move along.

The games quickly wrap up and move along,
Especially with four crammed in one day.
Accompanied by the same tuneless song,
The same at every tempo, you could say.

I wondered which to watch that afternoon
And chose neither, of course. They almost got
Done what would have been relatively soon,
Before adjournment. That said, they did not.

There had been games that morning. I saw part
Of one of them, although not very well.
The live video screen would stop and start
So erratically, it was hard to tell

What was occurring. Still, I sat alone,
Trying to keep up with a far time zone.

Trying to keep up with a far time zone
Can be easier than it might appear.
The times that MLB.com has shown
Are rarely mine. I’m relatively near

To my team even when it goes away
Out west. Eleven-thirty’s not too late
(At least it’s not right now) for me to stay
Up and listen to them meeting their fate.

Is this how West Coast fans feel all the time,
Made blatant by the road trips to Seattle?
The surety that there’s always more time
So settle in, ready for a long battle?

“Nite game”, this would be called in our home park.
Tonight, there’s nothing there; the scoreboard’s dark.

Tonight, there’s nothing there; the scoreboard’s dark.
Turned off as if in respect. Numbers don’t
Do justice anymore, as each old mark
Is obliterated. Some watching won’t

Understand much, but elegance, we get.
Polite applause, scores read in monotone,
The darkened board, the white clothing–and yet
The players make their images their own.

A necklace, here and now? And more bizarre
To me, at least; a backwards baseball hat?
Yet Nike swoosh and all, that’s what they are.
A rally might help, if you put it that

Way. So into another night they stay,
Hours pass; the score creeps up as they play.

Hours pass; the score creeps up as they play,
Becoming more urgent. Without a goal
It’ll be over. There’s more than one way
To qualify; it isn’t like the sole

Hope is a stoppage-time goal. That’s the stuff
Of stories for children, far too cliché
For the real world. A draw would be enough
If…Slovenia could tie it up, say…

The timing is the fourth official’s whim.
And at this rate, officials? You can’t trust
Them very far. I wouldn’t count on him
To help you out. This year might be a bust.

Ninety minutes gone. Hope, worry, guess, pray–
They can’t keep going like this. Or can they?

They can’t keep going like this. Or can they?
I don’t know. I saw fragments, heard defeat
A couple nights. But that is not to say
I missed it all. I saw part of a feat

Unsurpassed–yet people could surpass that.
That’s the thing about sports. You never know
What the future will mock as just old hat,
Nor how much longer anything can go.

And I could read about it, after all.
I could see highlights, if I wanted to;
The journeys in distant times of a ball
Hit, pitched, or kicked, until at last you’re through.

And so we ask ourselves as play suspends;
Would you rather see beginnings or ends?