I will be gone soon.
After almost eight decades of rooting for
the home teams in the Bronx and Queens,
I will no longer be there to add cheers and
prayers for my chosen team. There will be an
empty seat aimed at the roster which added thrills
and excitement to another dream-laden season.
This is no call to tears. I’ve had my fill of cheers
leaving me with an afterlife replete with emotional
victories. I will leave reluctantly, surrounded by
echoes of not so recent championships and
lingering visions of World Series rings and banners,
with the music of the game sung by fans and the
manicured grass and dirt. There will be one less
fan in the stands but one more in the heavenly
seats — and if I’m fortunate, I will be in the
blessed company of Mickey, Yogi, Moose and
Whitey from my youth and Dwight, Daryl, Keith, Gary,
Wally and Mookie of my middle age. Baseball will
ease the inescapable transition, and I am capable
of allowing my love of the game comfort me
as I finish rounding the bases and crossing
home plate and heading for the New York
dugout, with all those smiling faces waiting
to embrace me, at last.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME