Game 7 Blues
A World Series poem
before Barger swings for the wall. Even the managers still witness firsts. A stumble here a grimace there the stands more frenzied than ever. Everyone knows why. Nothing like last week’s baking dozen and a half or brutal intervening trouncings even but what untold humiliation to have to walk it back to third. Everyone hopes for an ending. Whose. after What world’s sport compares to anyone’s game. Smith and Rojas bring the post-nightfall fire and Yamamoto a lucky 97. Can it be called luck though amid talk of villains. Can there even be a hero when a very different story reaches the same conclusion. Blood sweat tears glisten like diamonds. After chaos remains order, emergent structure. You can still see where they left it all. 1-2 November 2025
