Take Me Out to the Park

My voice will never be anything
to sing about
but that doesn’t stop me.
There are three tunes
it carries well enough:
a lullaby, a lament
and a baseball song.
One for every occasion.
Not that I like ball games.
It’s the “Take me out,”
that makes me sing.
There’s always something
to lament,
if you think about it.
Well, even if you don’t.
The lullaby has a boat.
And, sometimes,
a boat is the only way
to get back home.

True confession: Until last evening, I’d never watched even a single inning of a baseball game on television or on a field. Though from the time I was little I knew and, with delight, sang the baseball song, even had a little Yankee’s ceramic doll. The thing I liked about the doll was how its head bobbed up and down on a spring.

In grade school, when teams were chosen for P.E. I was always the last one picked. Which ever team ended up with me on it, let out a collective groan as I, reluctantly, walked to that camp. When the ball came—whatever ball—I’d cover my face with my hands and cringe, hoping this would all be over soon. In high school, I simply refused to play sports, sat down on the middle of the volleyball court, created an alternative P.E. program, got credit for ballet.

When it’s dark out or nearing dark and you’ve already walked in the park and dinner is cooking and you’re too tired to walk, anyway, what to do?

No, that’s not true. I admit, I got caught up in the fever— Giants’ fever. Not that I sat still through the entire game; I came in and out. Michael explained everything. It began to make sense. The skinny pitcher was cute. I didn’t understand the catcher’s crotch-front sign language. Nor the language of hand-symbols by their hats. I didn’t need to. What I liked what that the game includes a secret language.

Given a choice between two parks though, you know which one I’d choose.