I saw a picture in a magazine of a scowling old man holding a transistor radio up to his ear. He was sitting on a porch in a beat-up chair with a flag behind him. My interpretation: He’s a diehard baseball fan. 

From April to autumn his team has erred, 
Yet little from his threshold has he stirred; 
A charge of static pressed to his ear — 
    An oak of faith in his rickety chair — 
Across the way he still doth stir.