He swears—
    it’s his dad.

The Dodgers win
    because of some celestial coaching—
    a ghost hand in the glove,

    a whisper behind every pitch.

Not him,
    he says.

Never him.

And yet—

Every team he roots for?

Falls apart like wet cardboard.

The Braves?
    One and _eight_.

The *home opener*—
    He cheered.
    They collapsed.

Coincidence?
I mean… maybe.

But I’ve seen it.
    Too many times.
    Too *precisely*

He picks a side…
    and the scoreboard starts gaslighting us all.

Still,
    he means well.

Wears the colors
    because of me.

Sends me scores
    like it won’t jinx anything.

And even as I groan
    through every botched inning,
    I picture him smiling—
    cap turned backward,

    trying to love my team like it won’t break them.

So maybe he’s cursed.
Maybe it’s Pops.
Maybe it’s just the price of being adored.

Either way—
    I should probably just buy him a Braves cap…

    and get it over with.