The Voice of the Yankees fills our living room
Creaking out of a huge staticky radio
While my father sits in a brown chair
And screams at ballplayers as he cracks
Open peanuts and washes them down with beer
And my kid brother sits cross-legged on the floor,
Clutching an old shoebox filled with baseball cards
While he eyes Mel Allen’s every word.
Bob Lemon’s card is in the middle of our green rug,
The Cleveland Indians are all in their correct positions,
The Yankee lineup is ready and Mantle is next.
Something is wrong – The Mick’s card is missing.
My brother’s breathing changes and in his frustration
He turns over cushions and brushes away peanut shells.
How can I tell him to look
Under my pillow?