Poet's Showcase

World Series

By Sinead Ballagh

My grandfather was a baseball man.

Somewhere there is a picture of his team

taken early in the last century,

young men all --

solemn in their uniforms,

hair parted in the middle

and slicked back.

Their faces stern and peaceful,

perhaps contemplating

the next pitch,

the next hit,

the next slide.

The cheers erupting,

an innocent joy.

My grandfather, now grown old,

Still loved the game.

On summer afternoons

He would sit,


one game on the radio,

another on the transistor,

ear plug securely in place

and a third game on TV.

Ask him

and he can tell you

exactly what is happening

in each of the games

should you want to know

the next pitch,

the next hit,

the next slide,

who's on first?

My grandfather died,

doing what he loved best.

the World Series playing, still listening,

tall body seated in the old chair,

head thrown back,

seeing in his mind's eye

the next pitch,

the next hit,

the next slide

And he's home safe.

-- Sinead Ballagh is a Lawrence poet.


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