If you talk to a poet about rain, he will tell you about the rhythmic sound of it drumming on the roof. How it cleanses and purifies the soul along with the earth. He’ll tell you about the majesty of thunder and how the lightning flashes like the eyes of an angry lover. Poets find magic and wonder in everything
Even when it’s not there. There’s nothing magic about the groundskeepers unrolling the tarp. No music in the sound of the raindrops falling on the roof of the dugout. No, when the clouds decide to drop their load on the diamond there’s nothing beautiful about it. Instead the rain brings slippery grass that poses a hazard to the defense.
And if you’re the starter and it showers too long outside, you can bet there will be showering inside the clubhouse, too and that you’ll be the main man. Regardless of how the game is shaping up for you.
We were in the bottom of the sixth inning at Merck Field when it started raining hard enough to stop play. It had been sprinkling a little the whole game, but then the clouds opened and the water came pouring down. After 45 minutes, Achilles told me my night was over.
I was pitching maybe the third best game of my life. In six innings I had struck out 11. I was only at 92 pitches, too. But the damned rain had to come and spoil everything.
I hate the rain. And the poets.