The last man who was actually there
passes away in a Boston hospital,
dying words for anyone, anywhere
with the patient wherewithal
to listen to an oldster exaggerate
how huge the hitters, fast the pitch,
from his seat behind home plate,
so close, he saw the seam, the stitch.
His final breath, a skein of history
splits like the fingers of a mitt,
leaves it to books, to mystery,
to curse, to explain the myth of it.
A thousand ways to die or lose,
so goes the one who brought the news.
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