The game has admitted everyone.
Buy a ticket and enter the park.
But I must admit the tears I shed–
for a lost game, a lost borough,
for love my father was too broke
to show– are wasted. My mom
and I watching Japanese ball
during a lockout, my mom and I
cheering for opposing sides
during a series, my mom singing me
happy birthday when her Red Sox
broke the curse for the first time.
When will she play? Her daughters
in the bullpens warming, ready
for the call. The names of families
brushed away through clouds
of dust and old age, marriage
of grass to dirt, track to wall
of promise to potential, bat
to ball. Boy to girl. Ideals.