When the national TV baseball announcers
met the word, “punchball,” they didn’t
even know what it was, thereby denigrating
and obliterating my whole childhood.
It’s obvious they never lived in New York.
“Do you punch a baseball with your hand?” they asked.
“No, that would break your hand.” Duh.
“ What about with a soccer or kickball?”
“No, I don’ think that’s it.”
They looked it up.
“It’s like baseball,” they said.
“You toss it up to yourself and punch the ball.”
How could you guys be so ignorant
of the game that defined my young life?
How could you not know I played
punchball every day in the Second St. Park?
Punchball, are you listening? With a bright, pink
“Spaldeen” tucked into my back pocket.
You jerks can keep your national broadcast.
Just let me go back to my Second Street Park,
and try to hit one out over the tall wire fence.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME