Wrote this a few years ago in response to the local NPR station’s call for poems about baseball. They had me on to read it, which was fun and nervous-making. Bob Sheppard is 90 something, and started announcing Yankee games in 1951. He’ll open the new Yankee Stadium, but this is the first year he won’t announce. btw, the stunning pic of the wrecked baseball is from photographer Don Hamerman. You can read an interview with him here and buy some prints cheap, too, to hang in your classy bar.
BOB SHEPPARD
Transmigratory birds -
Orioles, Jays, Cards
In town one day, gone the next.
Our cities connect by rail by bus by train
By plane, by wire and less.
We move.
Born in the burbs, 90 miles from your
Calm, Bob Sheppard:
"Now batting. The Centerfielder. Number 7. Mickey Mantle."
And you were old then. Doing your crosswords,
Looking up at just the right moment, never
Missing a line. Your P.A. voice sitting
kindly between the squawk of the Scooter and
the Ol' Redhead, wised up, seen it all.
We migrate and grow by rail and plane and
PF Flyer - running faster, jumping higher -
Now we're minutes from Fenway, and
Sox fans, too. Proof that peace is possible.
It's all a game. And with my sons
We sit, ghost of my Dad and we and them and watch
Rootless and rooted, rooting,
And listen for you, Bob Sheppard, 92, I think you are, still there,
In between clever McCarver and professional Buck.
Look up, Bob. Look up.
"Number 2. The shortstop. Derek Jeter. Jeter."
The game goes on.