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Baseball Buddha Overstuffed Uncle Don, Fingers gripping the armrests Of a red, overstuffed chair, Planted directly in front of the small, magic screen, Watching every Red Sox game he could. Hair torn out long ago, Sneer permanently plastered on his face, No player, No manager, No announcer, No umpire, Ever getting it right. Uncle Don, a swirling vortex of negative karma, playing with the lives and actions of baseball greats, judging each one in turn, questioning each decision and indecision, and delivering the inevitable put-down: “Stupid, son-of-a-bitch.” Like a monk on a red, overstuffed mountain, he looked down on baseball humanity and asked the eternal question: “Why? Why? Why? Why did you do that?” His wailing meditative mantra: “OOOOOOOOOOOH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOH!” All humanity and baseball were doomed by these invocations. Don died a slow death in that red, overstuffed chair, fingers gripping the armrests, cursing the Sox with his last breath. Norman Bates |
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