“You’re asking me about my little Joshy?
Of course, he never plays on Friday nights,
or Saturday afternoons – it’s in his contract,
and, for sure, like Koufax, he would never
suit up for the World Series in October,
should the team be so fortunate.
Between innings, he can be seen reading
a real book, not a playbook,
but would it kill him to call me, his mother?
He has the money..
I constantly worry about him,
worried that some shiksa goddess
will ensnare him, even though he’s 28,
a boy still, playing a boy’s game.
He has his kosher food delivered to him.
As a good mother, I send him rugelach.
His teammates love my brisket.
When he strikes out, I can
almost hear him say, “Oy,” but when
he hits a home run, I can see him exult
with a cry of “Halevi” as he circles the bases.
He proudly wears #18, (chai) and has told me
he is grateful, the little pisher,
to play with chutzpah the Great American Game.
I’m so proud of him I’m kvelling.”
THE POETRY OF THE GAME