I attended only one baseball game in the Polo Grounds
When the New York Giants called it home and Willie
Plowed the horseshoe for flies that fell into his waiting
Fruit-bowl glove – – – and, with the advantage of that
Wisdom which walks hand-in-hand with age, I have
Come to realize that the baseball fan that dwells
Inside me, the one who goes beyond rooting for a
Team or a gathering of players, has come to see
How I foolishly messed up that singular experience.
It all stems from some cigarettes my father sold in
The ignorant-innocent days before the Surgeon
General warned us of the dangers of that ill-
Fated nicotine pastime. One brand, Chesterfield,
Sponsored the Gi’nts (an affectionate name), and
My dad got two ducats to one of their games
Because of his selling three packs of that brand to
One of any other – – – and I was gifted the tickets,
So I, a Yankee fan, took a friend and went, not
Much interested in the outcome (but I should have
Cared more about the display of prowess), and,
With the Giants trailing and playing sluggishly, we
Left in the eighth. Then I was taught a lesson in
Seeing the big picture. We waited nearby for the
Elevated train to come to our station, and, as if
The Baseball gods wished to teach us not to be
Parochial, we heard a roar most likely from the
Giant-faithful. We later learned that the home team,
Denizens of Coogan’s Bluff, had rallied in the
Final inning and had won! What we missed that day
Was not a play or rally; it was the chance to witness
Baseball skill and human spirit and teamwork and a
Refusal to give in to what might have been defeat.
We missed a life-lesson that was more valuable than
Three packs of cigarettes or free tickets or tasty
Juicy hot dogs. We beat the crowd and caught the
Train but missed the boat.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME