I renounce your right to my head.
Proudly, I wore the hat in ’78 in spite
of Bucky Dent. Your brim capped
my headache when Buckner booted it
in ’86 and shaded my eyes after Grady
left Pedro on the mound in ’03. But now
I’ve thrown it off, stomped it and hung it
at the back of the rack.
This is no hasty fit of intemperance.
No, the team didn’t win a championship
for 86 years, and still I wore the logo
the length of Vietnam, across Patagonia
and past the funeral fires of the Ganges.
In thanks, I gave a new hat to the Masai
who guarded my night path to the privy
on the Serengeti.
But you quit in ’11: lost
13 of 20 in September, blew
a 9-game lead and missed the playoffs
while noshing Kentucky Fried
and beer in the club house – not steak
and eggs, or even Fenway Franks.
That’s when the hat came off.
Like discarded club house socks
the miasma worsened. The GM
abandoned town. You fired
the manager and replaced him with
a Valentine, then lost 93 games in 2012
and lied about attendance.
I have scraped your scarlet “B”
from my forehead, banished
your brand from my T-shirt
and re-set my radio button to NPR
at least until opening day.