My Grandpa took me to my first baseball
game; I was eight years old.
There, I learned to love beer,
that bitter and sweet ambrosia.

My Grandpa bought us hotdogs,
a Coke for me, a beer for him.
“Ballgames are for beer,” he explained.
I nodded as though I understood.

My Grandpa took a sip of his beer,
turned to me and smiled.
“Try a sip,” he suggested.
So I did as he bid.

My Grandpa chuckled as I gasped;
it was bitter and cold
and sweet and sour.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I choked out.

My Grandpa looked out at the field
pointing his finger at the pitcher.
“He’s all washed up,” he opined.
“Did he just take a shower?” I asked.

My Grandpa looked at me
laughter in his eyes,
love barreling toward me like a line drive.
“I adore you, my girl,” he beamed.

My Grandpa took me to my first
baseball game when I was eight.
I learned to love that ritual sip of beer,
my Grandpa at my side.