Rooting For A Last Place Baseball Team 

A Poem by Zach Foster

My hometown baseball team is now forty games out of first

Of the teams in the league, we are the worst.

The pitching staff, so eager and young,

On which our hopes of a dream season hung,

Got lit up early and often and never came around

Sinking our chances for the pennant with only the sound

Of the crack of the other teams’ bats sending the ball

Over our outfield’s walls.

Our bats started luke warm only to go completely cold

When our two best hitters got traded and sold

To better playing teams on the coasts,

From there the team gave up the ghost.

Sitting in the stands of our ballpark on a late September day

With far more empty seats than fans who paid

I’m watching this scorned mut of a team I’ve loved since youth

Fighting desperately nail and tooth

To stay in a meaningless late season game

With nothing but pride to gain.

For those of us few, but faithful, bleacher bums, we have no fear

For our rallying cry is “Wait until next year!”