One summer day in July 1956 I took a thirty-minute walk
from my apartment building on Clay Avenue in the Bronx to Yankee Stadium.
The Yankees were playing the Senators, a bad team.
(First in War, First in Peace and last in the American League.)
In my pocket I had four quarters, two dimes and a nickel.
Enough to get me into the bleachers and buy a hot dog.
The Yankees won, but the game was close. The final score was 4-3.
My walk home was uneventful and my mom greeted me with hot dogs for dinner.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME