Sonnets for a Summer Game

With its theme of rebirth, with its potent symbols and imagery, with its evocative turns of phrase such as "the emerald chessboard," baseball is without a doubt our most literary of sports.

Except for boxing. And maybe fishing. Oh, and that movie "Dodgeball" was pretty good, too.

But there's no denying that baseball is definitely in the Top 5 when it comes to lit'rariness and downright class. And nothing says class like poetry. Or, as a poet might put it:

And nothing

says class

like . . .

poetry

Right now, our Washington Nationals -- those boys of summer, those Adonises of the on-deck circle, those two-score gentlemen of Viera -- are in spring training, preparing to come here and do us proud. I can think of no better way to greet them than with a collection of poems written in their honor by the readers of The Washington Post. (I'm sure they can think of a better way, but, hey, this is my column.)

The players will be here in about a month, trotting onto RFK Stadium's emerald chessboard, grassy Twister mat, verdant rhombus. . . . Now is the time to send me your Washington Nationals-themed poems. They may be haiku, limericks, rhyming couplets, free verse, doggerel, whatever, so long as they're poetical and celebrate some aspect of playing baseball in Washington. Oh, and they should be no longer than 16 lines.

Send your creations, with "Baseball Poem" in the subject field, to kellyj@washpost.com. Or write John Kelly, The Washington Post, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071. Please include your name, city and telephone number. The deadline is March 21.

I'll print some poems in a future column and treat the author of my favorite one to lunch at a nice expense-account restaurant. Unless you'd prefer some peanuts and Cracker Jack.

Red and Blue Make . . . Purple?

Cast your mind back, if you can, to a time before the presidential election -- not too long before the election, but in the run-up to it, when we were regularly reminded that America was dangerously divided as a nation.

That's when I printed a column about a man I dubbed " Mr. Jones" who came to me seeking advice. He and his wife had been invited to dinner with " the Smiths," neighbors in their suburban enclave.

The Smiths, it was obvious from campaign signs in their front yard, were supporters of Party X. The Joneses were loyal members of Party Y. Should the dinner invitation be accepted?

Mr. Jones assured me that he was not intolerant. Nor was he not interested in making new friends. Rather, in a world of limited time, of finite weekends for socializing with new acquaintances, he was reluctant to burn a precious free night with a couple with whom he most likely had nothing in common, not just politically but in the worldview sense.

(For who can deny that politics is a good, if sometimes crude, harbinger of bone-deep personal philosophy? A person who feels strongly that it is not permissible to wear plaid with polka dots might react badly to someone dressed in that selfsame fashion. [For "wear plaid with polka dots," substitute "have an abortion," "say a prayer in school," "marry two gay people," "defy the United Nations," "eat meat," "practice birth control," etc, etc.])

In my previous column, I delivered a little homily about how it takes all kinds to make the world go round, and then I urged Mr. Jones to break bread with Mr. and Mrs. Smith. My motives were somewhat selfish. I wanted him to report back so I would have fodder for another column.

Which is this column.

"Admittedly," Mr. Jones wrote me recently, "we found that we were very, very compatible on a number of topics."

On the evening in question, the Joneses did the things one normally does: toured the Smiths' house and made approving comments about its decor; discussed how long they'd lived in the area and where they worked; talked sports.

"On the other hand, it was quite clear that we were not compatible on the larger, big-picture issues," Mr. Jones said. "We, of course, didn't even come remotely near openly discussing anything politically or socially sensitive. But upon skirting the outer edges of potentially touchy social issues, it was quite clear that we were . . . polar opposites."

So, that's Mr. Jones's report. There wasn't a knock-down, drag-out fight, but nor were any connections made on any level other than the superficial. He sensed that the Smiths aren't hankering for a return engagement themselves.

Is there a bigger point that can be made about this, a universal lesson, a moral? Darned if I know. We're told that we should be able to see both sides of an issue but also that we should have the courage of our convictions. We respect people who feel strongly about issues, but we also can find them rigid and unyielding. And if we really feel that the life we've chosen for ourselves is the best one -- if we believe with every fiber of our being that plaid and polka dots belong together -- then don't we owe it to others to help them see the light?

Then again, don't we often just want to be left alone?

I decided the lesson I'm taking from the Smiths and the Joneses is that despite finding themselves on opposite ends of the political spectrum, they were civil to each other. That counts for a lot, and it's why civilization is so much better than all those other -izations.