In December, the Fan looks forward to spring
I wonder when the baseball season starts,
When men will fall upon the diamond's dust.
Pursuing liners they will never catch.
In spring, the contest's not between the teams.
It is the rookies trying to make the club;
the veterans striving for another year.
I love this slow, exquisite, formal game,
Enjoyed by Mexicans and Japanese,
Because it gives me pleasures of the soul,
Flamboyant passions of the matador,
An oriental silk-screens certain peace.