Time was I wouldn't have missed a World Series game for anything, especially one with the star power of Yankees vs. Phillies. But time is I don't have a television, and besides, there was a poetry reading I wanted to go to tonight. Time was and time is and times change. Though I'll have you know the afternoon of game one I picked the Phillies in six, and if I were a betting man, I would have had my money on Cliff Lee to outpitch C.C. Sabathia. Anyway, any night that starts off with beef stew and a "takeout" of a half gallon of Patterson's Cider is destined to have magic ready to burst out of its dark seams. The last song my car radio played before the reading was The Four Tops' "I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)" and I swear the first song it played two hours later when I was leaving was The Four Tops' "It's The Same Old Song," "Sugar Pie"'s ripped-off younger brother. Magic indeed. Besides, as I pulled away from the first light, the slick, late model silver Toyota ahead of me was making a much more fatal sound than all of my 18-year-old car's baker's dozen of whines, wheezes, groans, and squeaks make combined in their own post-modern symphony. In such a good mood, I didn't worry too much when I pulled up to the gas station and realized that somehow somewhere today I lost a five dollar bill (it's yours in spirit, mom), and when I got home and took out the garbage then realized I had thrown away something I shouldn't have and had to dig through the trash to retrieve it, I only laughed at my idiocy rather than cursed it. But the real magic was the poetry. Earlier today I thought I'd come home and spew my usual snarkiness about attending poetry readings, but I should have known better. Maj Ragain was reading tonight. Now for years I've said, when in doubt read poetry. Well, if you're doubtless sheer fortunate, you get to hear Maj read his poetry. As usual, it was great, but when he ended by reading his poem "Alton Memorial/To My Son, From Greece" stars aligned, the Muses paused, and grown men shed tears. I'd trade a lifetime of World Series memories to live in that poem forever. Somewhere in all the poetry, it struck me: the real Clevelander is the one who stays and lives; he may leave, but he comes back and stays; the rest are merely tourists who have no genuine claims on the place. Just a thought. Another one: despite its chauvinism, I kind of always liked the line in "Thunder Road" where Bruce Springsteen sings, "you ain't a beauty but hey you're all right." It fits the song. But tonight it struck me, what a weak rhyme, and what a poor follow-up to "Have a little faith, there's magic in the night." I wonder how Bruce would follow a line like that these days. Because there is magic in the night, sometimes, and it deserves to be respected, honored, and thanked.
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