My mother took me to Ebbets Field,
home of the old Brooklyn Dodgers.
There was no greater embarrassment
than being escorted by my mother.
(Wasn’t that something a dad was supposed to do?)
Neither parent knew the difference
between a football and a baseball,
having spent years in Europe.
I was only hoping that none of my
sixth-grade classmates would see me there.
My mother, though, was quite content
to do her needlework, hardly looking at the field,
while I peeked out from under my jacket
to watch my beloved heroes
in their blue and white uniforms.
I was horrified that my secret would be revealed,
and subsequently mocked the next day in school.
I bobbed between fear and joy.
Only years later did I realize
my mother’s love in taking me,
far outweighed any shame I felt then.