Last year, I threw down your hat
with its scarlet B, red as an apple.
Trampled it with boots I wore
to rake dead leaves. Declared
your brand unfit for my forehead.
Hung it where I couldn’t reach.

Then you tossed your baubles
to the Dodgers, repented,
and fired your frilly Valentine.
For redemption, you hired obscure
players who grew obscure beards
but played with zest. And won –
97 times — this year’s best record!
And now you are playing
for the Championship!

I have been eyeing that hat again
fingering its stylized letter, brushing
leaf fragments from its brim. Perhaps
it’s time? How often was Eve tempted?

— Don McLagan