(for my father)
"He tore it off like a chicken wing–see?
(a garland of scar around the thumb) cleats
high as Cobb's and me hanging in, skinny
as ever, ready to turn two, my meat
hand dangling like bait before those mean teeth.
As they carried me off the field he called,
'Hey, Four-eyes! What do you think about that?'
'Maybe the good Lord'll pick up the ball–
who knows? It's a long season on the grass,
you bastard.' In the end, in Boston, God
disguised as Musial lined a final blast
off his nose. I wired him a knowing nod."
He smiled, remembering to his daughter
the kick and the smirk of Enos Slaughter.
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