When I attended elementary school in the 1950’s,
One of my classmates was a servant to the gods
Of the pinstripe. He spent seasons of days and
Evenings as dependable bat boy to the perennial
Pennant contenders from the Bronx, our home
Borough. I used to sneak-peaks at him in the
School corridors, – – – and passing his stand-alone
House on my six-block walk to and from Public
School 119 from my apartment building, I would
Glance at his front windows, trying shyly to detect
A glimpse of him perhaps trying on his own
Pinstriped uniform. But this was my fantasy, not his.
So, I was free to visualize him any time I ventured
By his Virginia Avenue chateaux in the East Bronx
And conjure up his working pseudo-pin stripes. In
My fertile mind, he actively scuttled after foul balls
And tossed bats – – – and tried his best to act cool,
Not to make eye contact with any of the Bronx
Bombers who were at home on 161st Street, on
The “neatly Manicured” infield or the richly verdant
Grass. How many times I allowed myself to conjure
Up player conversations he might have heard, such
As player-coach instructions, that a ball boy might be
Privy to: “Listen, Mick, this hurler’s got a wicked curve
That breaks late to the left, as Yogi found out” – – – “Hey,
Gene, nice toss to keep that runner from advancing” . . .
I just imagined how my ball boy classmate’s baseball
World was so much more three dimensional compared
To my 16-inch 2 D TV view! I wasn’t jealous; that’s too
Strong a word. What I felt was good-natured envy.
But I kept things in perspective. At least, I had the
‘50’s Yankees. I could have been a fan of the St. Louis
Browns or Washington (“first in war, first in peace, and
Last in the American League”).
THE POETRY OF THE GAME