Bags of Bran

Knuckleball at the Gate
September 15, 2011, 4:13 pm
Filed under: Biography, Destined to get me in trouble

My wife and I sometimes resort to playing Whiffleball when life stops making sense. Perhaps you’re interested in why life has stopped making sense, so in order to frustrate your curiosity, I will instead write some sorry doggerel about Whiffleball.

When we’ve talked a subject through, and there seems no good way through;
Instead of staying up late, Lady stands before the gate.
The center-most three boards a good strike zone afford
for curves that come a-hissing, and fastballs nearly missing.
That lady starts to pout when e’er I strike her out,
So sometimes I decide to let her take one for a ride.
Well suddenly this afternoon for some light laughter
I grabbed a ball with nails embedded and I let it sail
A-flailing toward the gate with nary spin to compensate.
It tumbled and it darted, leaving Lady broken hearted
From a lithe and torrid swing at the horrid, flutt’ring thing.
“That was stupid,” next she mumbled, ’bout that ball so gently tumbled,
“For it flew not after Newton,” said she with glares a shootin’
From eyes both hot and narrow, and a chill did sweep my marrow.
Then it was my sudden pleasure to inform my helpmeet treasure
Of my comrade named Bernoulli, whose laws define the fool’ry
That a knuckleball evinces both for knaves and noble princes.
She informed me I’m the former. And now I’m the new bench warmer.


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