He often wrote deeply in allegory, so perhaps.
Though I think there's a rumor that Eliot was a Red Sox fan and became disenchanted when the Sox sold Ruth. Not just a little -- I'm talking like JMOH and Mookie level devastation. Apparently, he refused to speak of the Sox for years after.
https://www.efqreview.com/NewFiles/v20n2/viewfromleftfield.html
In 1907, Boston performed slightly better (the Americans moved all the way up in the standings to seventh place), but Eliot's grim outlook became even more grim, as reflected in the opening lines of the
Ur-Prufrock manuscript. [Reading the article might be a good idea].
The Wasteland Called Huntington Grounds:
Not Quite A Love Song
Let us go then, you and me
To see
The Boston Americans play
Like patients etherized upon a table.
Let us go through half-deserted streets
To claim our seats
On aisles covered by peanut shells.
Let us cheer and wave our hankies:
Shall we ever beat the New York Yankees?
In the bleachers, a woman wags her tongue,
Talking of the great Cy Young.
The starting pitcher rubbed the ball upon his pants,
The grinning batter choked up upon his bat,
Licked his tongue into the corners of his mouth,
Lingered over home plate that stood in drains,
Smashed the pitch high into the yellow air,
When the shortstop made a sudden leap,
But seeing that it was a soft September night,
Dropped back to earth, and fell asleep.
And indeed will there be a time
For the home team to come back?
Yes. There will be time, there will be time
If the pitcher will bear down,
And drop a sweeping curve over the plate,
Time to hit and time to field,
Time for the manager to make a hundred indecisions
Before the partaking of hot dogs and beer.
