|
circa November 1998
Hero
Sitting here, running my scissors through the newspaper clippings
soon to be lovingly decorating my walls
I seek out David Cone, snip and cut.
These pictures are mine--I have to haggle with my sister
over Jeter and Pettitte and Brosius, but as Paulie is hers
I have exclusive rights to these strips of paper
which bear my Coney's image.
What does it mean to a man who's earned the love of millions?
He'll never know that I sit here, see his pictures,let my heart fill with warmth.
When the season starts again, I'll watch him on the mound with awe
then bend my ear to hear his words after the game
smile, and say "That's my Coney!"
I know the way he lifts his eyebrows
the words he'll choose in interviews
his look of frustration at an umpire's call or amistake pitch.
I know his smile, his half-smile, his slightly-condescending-talking-to-the-media smile, his smile of pure joy.
I know his voice.
He'll never know that the wounded look in his eyes makes me cry for him.
That I ache to comfort him, and to share in his joy.
That when I'm ready to give up, his grit and determination spur me forward.
That when I'm sad, thoughts of his smile, his words, his actions cheer me up.
Is it too much to ask to give back to someone who's given me so much?
Diplomacy
New York diplomacy
means grin and bear it--
when the guy behind you dumps beer on your back
and screams at the pretty girls to strip for himor when the guy in front of you
jumps on his seat and won't let you see--
because it's the only way you can see the postseason.
It means being quiet when the crowd does obscene cheers
and it means cheering quietly when everyone else is booing,
because they don't believe you're a true fan if you know
that everyone makes mistakes, and your boys need your support anyway.
It means tolerating the rude, the crude, the lewd,
the drunk and the annoying
because if they love the Yankees,
they must be human.
(Somehow.)
Contract
Thanksgiving Day
the bounty placed before us
I bow my head
giving thanks for a beautiful team intact
Thank you, Lord, for Bernie Williams.
Spencer
psssst!
Look, it's him, he's up again!
Have you heard about this kid?
He hit the homer yesterday
and the other yesterday
and the one before that...
move over! Lemme see! He's gonna do it again!
9 years in the minors, they say.
Who cares! He's here now.
ssssh! Look! It's high, and far!
It's gonna make it!
that damn kid hit another one!
How's he do it?
I dunno, I just watch.
Beauty
Some silly girls think that the beauty in Derek Jeter is in his face
but I know know better.
I know that the kind of beauty that takes your breath away
is in watching him leap and pivot and throw.
The blur of white comes to the gap
and he's there
he's on it
and without touching the ground, without coming back to reality
he has turned and fired to first
and it is, inevitably, in time.
Fire
they say that long ago
the leader of the O'Neill clan in old Eire cut off his own arm
to win a race
and claim a land for his people
and you can see it in Paul's eyes
as he presses for second
racing himself and his desire and time and eternity
and dives in, bleeding, at the bag
and bleeding from deeper within when the lazy fly ends it all.
At the End
in '96
John Wetteland leapt up and reached for the sky
as Girardi grabbed his waist and the teammates piled 'round
but in '98
Mariano Rivera fell to his knees
and threw out his arms
and let go:
let go of blame and guilt and what ifs
let go of tension and expectations
let go with the knowledge that this year ends in joy
let go as Joe Girardi was there, once more, tosupport him
just as he helped Wetteland fly.
A Meeting (Touch)
in a clubhouse in '95
in the first October either'd ever visited
the Yankees' past met its future
as a veteran first baseman's career culminated in a five-game series in Seattle
and a young shortstop sat wide-eyed on the bench
(four more postseasons, three championships in four years far from his mind)
as Donnie Baseball whispered to Derek Jeter
"Do you know how lucky you are?"
Opening Day
75 years ago today
a man stood at homeplate where Tino now stands
and christened the place that is his more than any other being
by stroking the ball way, way back.
75 seasons ago, in a shining new ballpark in the Bronx
he touched the dirt where Tino's feet rest
and 23 championships apart
he wraps his broad, ethereal arms around #24
and lends his great strength
to let one soar
Remembering
They tell me that when my children
ask me about this team
I won't be able to name a single player.
Me, whose Knoblauch-Jeter-O'Neill-Williams-Martinez
beats in my blood.
Well, I shall tell my children
(as my father whispered to me
of Mantle and Maris and Ford and Berra)
that the most glorious team I have ever seen was triumphant
because a man who was only human, and the one they called the anti-Reggie
turned the Series around in its first game
and it was capped off, two games later, by last year's .200 hitter.
I'll tell them that the games were won
by one who showed us that human beings can touch perfection
one who struggled for freedom, and to play his game
a man who called back 10 years of youth to dominate once more
and the one they always doubted would come through.
I'll tell them there was a rookie who hit .600
and two catchers who made eachother better
a shortstop, cheerful and unspoiled by success
a calm center-fielder whose voice was quiet but whose fire was strong
a right-fielder with passion, and a closer who was invincible.
Perhaps I won't tell them the names--
although even Homer Bush shall not be removed from my mind on that day--
because if they hear my story
they'll know the names weren't the important part,
save for the one name that binds them:
New York Yankees.
Rain (Haiku)
A 39 on the back of his cap
David Cone pitches 5 2/3 shutout innings
until the rains come
|
