Of course, he never plays on
Friday nights or on Saturday afternoons –
it’s in his contract, and for sure,
like Koufax, he never suits up on the High Holidays.
Between innings, he can be seen reading a book,
or placing a call to his mother in New Jersey,
who constantly worries about him, worries
that some shiksa goddess will ensnare him,
even though he is 28, a boy, still, playing a boy’s game.
He eschews Mickey’s D’s and Taco Bell;
instead he has all his kosher food delivered to him.
His teammates love the pastrami.
When he strikes out, he can be heard murmuring, “Oy,”
but when he blasts a home run,
he exults with a cry of “Halevi”
as he circles the bases, his yarmulke flying.
He proudly wears #18, (chai),
and is grateful he, the little pisher,
is fortunate enough to play, with chutzpah,
the Great American Game.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME