At
Shea Stadium our seats were way too high
to
see the players, let alone the ball.
When
someone cracked a homer, my boyish eye
flashed,
but failed to track its trail at all.
I
stood and gave a tipsy clap, the beer
secured
between my tattered keds—non-Met
fans
raised en masse a flatulent Bronx Cheer.
Down
in front, a black and white TV set,
rabbit-eared and tinfoiled, showed the game.
I
thought of Mickey Mantle, Joltin' Joe,
and
Mrs. Robinson. Though it's a shame,
I
can't remember now who won. I go
along
with friends today as I went then:
equally
loving games, and mice, and men.
-
6.1.14
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