I heard these soothing tunes in my kindergarten days.
The velvet-voiced chorus of Red Barber, Mel Allen, and Vin Scully
painted word tapestries of baseball games
played on sweltering summer Brooklyn Sundays of my youth.
I flipped from radio station to radio station in search of each of the
triumvirate of broadcast virtuosos directing his distinct aria thru mysterious radio waves.
The broadcasters revered the baseball gods and taught this descendent of Dante
the lilt, language, and literature of the English tongue.
Awake when their diamond concertos began,
I usually drifted into a dream state before the ninth inning curtain descended.
Then, my sainted mom gently guided me from under the credenza,
that served as a bed for my crackling radio, to the closest couch.
Nowadays, when sleep eludes the septuagenarian me,
I seek out this broadcast chorus to embrace sleep.
It’s much more difficult to connect.
No longer does Barber boast about his “catbird seat”
nor does Allen hail, “How about that!” on the Earthly stage.
Fortunately, today’s mysterious technology delivers the Pavarotti of baseball broadcasters
Vin Scully’s soliloquy directly from the Golden State to the Sunshine State and to my senior rocker.
At least once a week Scully, the mellifluous and gentle raconteur,
whispers into my night and I slide into sleep
while my diamond dreams deliver thoughts of hits, homers, and heroics.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME