by Paul Nelson

Here’s the crusher. There would be a time when old Comiskey no
longer a place where he helped vendors and got in for free, now w/
a kid who wanted to be a shortstop but afraid of a liner in the eye
and there he goes with his un official hobby (Steve says) public
embarrassment. But it’s a Red Sox golfing outfielder named Hawk
Harrelson and Pop had a scream or two for him as I ordered cokes
from the vendor and they came, more than I wanted, which argh’d
Pop’s volatile liver. (Argh.)

                                       Stick it in his ear! he yelled
                              but who hears from the cheap seats but
                                                      all the cheap seat people?

One time with one less ticket, the stub a prop for a bluff – a
different color even, way before scanners develop’d by microsoft
knew who was in and who not (we were) and bat day vs. the Twins.
55,555 hoping for pegleg Veeck’s exploding scoreboard and some
folks left once they got a bat. Not real Sox fans thought I, but here’s
Pop, liking the ballpark not crowded, like in the year of Gutteridge
& now getting ready to check out. I’m not ready. Most everyone
else is, but they ain’t 2,000 miles away. Coach of our champion
team beat Roger’s Cardinals when the winning grounder went
through his legs. My triple down the right field line, some
consolation for him whiffing me in the All Star game. & Pop can
now let that liver rest as he prepares to die, but unlike La Bandera
Negra, he won’t just walk away.

                                              Cats have it right
                                                                   lots of naps
                                     & so nimble no one finds the corpse.

                                                                                            7:04P – 6.8.09