To tear the old place down was the last straw,
But they had long since changed the game for me.
I didn’t spend enough to pay my share
Of salary and profit for the club,
And, so, somehow, membership was revoked.
I had for years parked on the South Bronx streets,
And bought a hero sandwich up the block,
And sat with homemade scorecard through all nine,
Without the need to buy a bobble head.
But worst of all, I still contributed
To silence that once hung across the park,
A hammock on those lazy summer days,
When you’re content to let the whole world slip.
Then came fake bugles, mechanical cheers,
Loud music danced to by Cotton-eyed Joe.
You couldn’t hear the elevated train
For all the noise the cartoon subway made.
Forget the bat’s crack or the leather’s pop.
They couldn’t trust that I would stay awake,
And so they filled the once expectant space
Between the innings with crowd pleasing din
The way they do it in the minor leagues.
Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine
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