My father took me
to Giant football games.
“Wait here,” he’d tell me,
pointing to a space where
I had to stand while
he went and got the tickets.
(Today he would be brought up on
charges of reckless abandonment.)
We froze in five different stadiums.
I wanted to go home because
it was so cold and he’d
stuff another hot dog in me.
He never had much money,
but what he had, he spent on the Giants.
I did not understand the complexity of play.
“I want to go home,” I said, fingers freezing.
“Here’s the program; memorize the roster.”
My father is gone now, over 40 years.
I wish I could still go with him to Giant Stadium.
I would not even complain about the cold.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME