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Atonement: An All-or-Nothing Venture [a hyper link'd baseball poem]

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Your Sinfulness: Deal with It. (Photo by Jeff Zelevansky/Getty Images)
Your Sinfulness: Deal with It. (Photo by Jeff Zelevansky/Getty Images)
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"We shall miss him on the infield and shall miss him at the bat
But he's true to his religion—and I honor him for that."

--Edgar A. Guest, "Speaking of Greenberg"

It takes great faith
to set aside one day each year to contemplate our sinfulness,
sit in a congregation, mull the improbability of memory, of legacy, of the eternal.

We have this day to obliterate our sins, cast them outside the walls of the holiest of holies, to pummel, stone, expiate them, and wish to be a contributor with a by-line in the Book of Life, or Baseball,
and hope that we are written there.

No matter how good we are, or how bad, we perish:
Seasons end. Our children are left to wander about for a new Messiah, a promised land.

The ancients offered the Bull, smeared his blood, and held a lottery of the goats:
one for the Lord, one to banish into the wilderness of the prayers worn about our slumping shoulders.

There is something in our gauzy glimpse at the eternal that trades on the traditional,
our tired endeavor to cleanse ourselves, in which
we petition privately, confess publicly, are charitable, and hope to wear white for as long as we can,
then rest, strictly and hungry, upon the mercy seat of the Ark of the Covenant--

this centuries-old bargain, which, when concluded, each party to the deal
hopes to meet a face unmelted by the horror of its own reflection.

In response to this poem, and in the spirit of the holy day (which begins at sundown), please use this thread to atone for your own sins publicly here on the blog or against the Phillies. Some of you may have to use some discretion to enable our imaginations to run wild, but nevertheless, we have a lot of self-washing to do, and not much time to do it.