1931, my dad was 11 —
went to his first Red Sox game,
a bunch of boys, worn out mitts & bosox caps,
treated by a local cop to fly higher at Fenway’s
nose-bleed bleachers, tickets: 50 cents
& a nickel for a ballpark dog.
Discussion raged on the curse of the bambino:
the king of rods, & the World Series drought.
Twenty-one years later a console w/doors,
wood (mahogany): brand new 1952
black & white RCA television
never could replace Curt Gowdy the radio voice
of the Boston Red Sox – according to my dad.
4 Yawkey Way tethered to his ear, by invisible
radio waves to a small Bakelite radio
every game night.
Same discussion: Ruth and the pennant.
My mother kept her comments under her breath –
just doing her things, cooking meat & potatoes,
folding worn-out handkerchiefs and
occasionally tripping over the radio electric cord.
Fast forward – 2004.
He sits in his chair, eating a sandwich:
ham & cheese, lettuce, tomato & mayo.
transfixed by 23-inning baseball games & traffic reports,
Red Sox finally won the Pennant,
and my dad said he waited 84 years for it.