T.S. Eliot may have actually had the answer when it came to the conundrum known as Red Sox centerfielder Jacoby Ellsbury.
Let us go then when the evening game is spread out against the sky like a base stealer etherized in his slide to second base-and lately sliding to oblivion.
If you ask fans what happened to Jacoby, you will hear the sound of muttering retreats, of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels.
The women may indeed talk of Michelangelo and Jacoby when they come and go. Ellsbury remains in a yellow fog while Scott Boras insists there will be time; yes, there will be time for his star to emerge as a superstud.
In the meantime, Jacoby wonders, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?" But Ellsbury has measured out his life in broken ribs and the fear that another injury will shatter him like glass.
Right now the media has him pinned, wriggling against that monster big wall. How shall he begin a career as a superstar at age 30? In another venue?
Jacoby has seen the Red Sox batboy hold his jockstrap and snicker. In short, he has been afraid of the crashing catch and the desperate slide. He has already come back like Lazarus from the dead, but he bit the matter off with a smile.
Poor Jacoby. He is not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be. He is a serviceable center, one that will do to start a game or two. He is deferential, glad to be of use, politic, cautious, and meticulous.
Will Ellsbury dare to eat a peach? He heard the mermaids singing for one season, but now he is wrapped in seaweed.