The BBWAA can suck the Cumulative fart the rest of baseball has been choking on for years - A Literary Poem

He sits around a dimly lit room. Just a desk lamp on from the 1950’s. You know the one of which I speak. It’s rectangular. Your grandparents kept in “the den” on the writing desk.

The lamp is lit, a cigarette burns in an ash tray, the room littered with old news papers and Sports Illustrated magazines from “the good old days”.

It’s early. Sun is not up yet. Watching snow fall through the window gently from the trees after the evening’s dusting. Opening day looms large on the calendar. Literally large. The calendar’s text has been enhanced so not to strain the eyes. It was a gift from a grandson. An ungrateful little twerp nevertheless.

The writer is a man. An old man. Because only old men have the time to give a shit about the slog between pitches while the rest of the world consumes a dozen Tik Tocks, looks up a lasagna recipe they will never follow through with, and jerks off to Jennifer Lopez deep fake porn.

All the while he sits with his suspenders loosened, sipping, a coffee, ripping farts to no end, sucking in the wafts of bull shit he is soon to spew on the page about a game that died years ago, yet still holds it’s “integrity”. The likes of which these devils Bonds and Clemens will never besmirch on his watch.

He is the watcher of the game, the keeper of the holy records, the voice of a dusty age rank of whiskey, nicotine, and denial. He is the baseball writer.